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College News 






THE PARTY Harriet B. Devan, 1913 1 

TWILIGHT Doris Fenton, 1913 4 

THE SPELL Agnes Rockwell, 1912 5 

FAITH MERRIMAN Katharine Pardee, 1912 10 



STUDENT GOVERNMENT— AFTER, Florence F. Besse, 1907 



The Knight 

of Toggenberg 

Ballad for Alto Solo and 
Chorus of Women's Voices 

From the German of 
Friedrich von Schiller 

The music by 


Price, Postpaid, 50 cents 

A splendid work, of moderate difficulty, for any 
organization of women singers. It requires about 
twenty minutes to sing it. 

Discount on Quantities 

Oliver Ditson Company, 

150 Tremont St., Boston, Mass. 

Also For Sale at College Book Store 





Cijanbler & Co. 

151 Tremont Street, Boston 


Suits Coats 

Dresses Waists Millinery 

Neckwear Hosiery Gloves 

Underwear Veilings Petticoats 

Jewelry Sweaters 







Xmas Gift 

Onsurpa§§ed-{ c b h n c b Tat s es 





T II E W E L L E 5 I. I. \ I OL LEG E 


Jewelry, watches, rings, fobs, emblem 
pins, trophies, silver cups, note papers 
with monograms in color, invitations to 
commencement and class-day exercises 


Purchases can be made of Tiffany & Co. 


Fifth Avenues- 37 th Street 
New York 


The First Month of the New Year Will 
Be of Two=Fold Interest to Our Patrons 

Do not fail to keep in touch with New 
England's Greatest Store during January. 

Day by day advance displays of Spring 
styles will be made in various apparel sec- 
tions — day by day exceptional economies will 
be possible on many lines of winter merchan- 
dise. Many of the largest and most carefully 
planned special sales of the entire year occur 
this month— and you should not miss them. 



Wellesley National B 




Requests you to call 
for a statement of your 

Wtlltzk? inn. 

account as soon as pos- 

Afternoon Tea. 

Sandwiches and Sundaes. 

CHAS. N. TAYLOR, President, 

BENJ. H. SANBORN, Vice-Pres 









RENTINd DEPARTMENT.-We arc continuing the rent- 
ing of pictures, and in addition are renting Portable Elec- 
trics, Jardinieres, Tea Tables and Shirt-Waist Boxes. 



ax brothers 


143 Tremont Street, Boston. 

Opposite Temple Place Subway Station. 


Constantly on hand. 

Mail and Telephone Orders Promptly Filled. 
Telephones Oxford 574 and 22167. 



Established 1901 


Prescriptions compounded accurately with 
purest drugs and chemicals obtainable „st 

Complete Line of High Grade Stationery 
and Sundries 

Waterman Ideal Fountain Pen 


Page & Shaw, Huyler, Quality, 
Lowney, Samoset 

Eastman Kodaks and Camera Supplies 


Pure Fruit Syrups Fresh Fruit in Season 

Ice-Cream from C. M. McKechnie & Co. 

Commence the New Year Ri?ht 



The Popular 5-Year Diary, and keep a record 
of the pleasant college happenings for 5 years. 



Samuel Ward Company, 

57-63 Franklin St., Boston. 






160 Tremont Street 

Over Moseley's 

Afternoon Tea Between West and Boylston 

3.30-5.30 Streets 

We Carry an immense line 



Jewery and Silver 

at Very Low Prices 

We especially call attention 

to goods suitable for gifts 

for all occasions 

SUMMER ST. Wholesale 
Next Hovey's Retail 

In THEIR NEW STORE at 127 Tremont Street 

Ready-to- Wear Department. 


Made in our own Workroom 

For Morning and Afternoon 




""" stf ^ 127 Tremont St. 
&AJ7*X Boston> u. s . A< 


T II E W E L L ES L E Y ( I.I. EG E N I. 







190-192 Boyloton St. 

i^-.i J Park Square 


Specialty Shop 


sele< . in manv 

styles, and of special importation, 
splendid valm , makes oui 



stock, are smart, exclusive and n 

GOWNS The latest fashions in street and 

evening gowns in materials of 
t variety are especially arranged by our 

designers. The French hand-made linger- 
embroidered linen gowns and dresses are 


WAISTS P ur n ? w models now on display 

in chiffon, silk marquisette, 
pongee, hand embroidered tailored linen, French 
hand-made and domestic lingerie are especially 
attractive and excellent values. 

A visit to this exclusive shop will convince the pur- 
chaser that the styles are unusual and unlike models 
shown elsewhere. Telephone i i I ■ , 


1=1 C 


: = 


Please try to remember that the Advertising Section of our Magazine cannot be a success 
unless you patronize the firms represented therein. 



Spalding & Bros viii 

Wright & Ditson 34 


Wellesley National Bank ii 


C. M. McKechnie & Co xiii 


Walter Baker & Company, Ltd vii 


Huyler's, Boston 2nd cover 

Lovvney, Boston 34 


George P. Raymond Co xi 


J. A. Morgan Co iii 


Tailby 35 

Wax Bros iii 

Moore's Non-Leak Fountain Pen.. 


Craftsman Co vii 


Edward F. Kakas & Sons. Boston x 

Lamson & Hubbard, Boston 


Barkas, Wellesley 

Cowan, Wellesley xii 

Genesee Pure Food Co., Le Roy. X. Y xiv 


Columbia Gymnasium Suit Co xii 

Miss Ruth Hodgkins xii 

I inued on page ix.) 



Ladies' Hatter 

160 Tremont St., - Boston. 

Over Moseley's Shoe Store. 


{college shoes 

I In all shapes and sizes. 



i 160 Tremont and 33 Mason Sts., Boston. 
*■ »SOS' -HH- «»« «HH"™ 4SK— > SS— SSSS- 


Opera Glasses, 

In fact, a full line of 



The finest quality work at 
our usual moderate prices. 

Developing, Printing and Enlarging, j 




Pinkham & Smith Company, j 

Two Stores— 288 Boylston Street, 
13 1=2 Bromfield Street 





Diamonds, Gems, fine Stationery, Card 

Programs and Invitations 

Both Printed and Engraved 


Class Pins Designed and Manufactured to Order 
Fine Jewelry Repairing 

Parasols and Umbrellas Made to Order, Recovered 
and Repaired 

Zhe TOellesle^ College View* 

Entered at the Post Office in Wellesley, Mass., at *econd-cla*» mi 




No. 12 



HIS is one of those corners of the uni- 
verse," lie wrote on, "in which any man 
could find an outlel for hi- heart'- de- 
sire. The regular farm lite, with all it- 

insistent routine as well as its picturesqueness 
would lie what you would sec in it, my literal -i-- 
ter. I know that within one or two days' time you 
would find your daily joy in sloshing back and forth 
in the wet garden all the 'forenoon,' picking the 
peas and corn, or sharing in the weekly baking, or 
cheering the daily drudgery with some such effective 

"As for me — I brazenly confess it, I am having a 
heavenly time being a drone. I am feasting my 
city-tired eyes on sunny hills that seem to rim the 
world in all about us with their pasture lands or their 
mysterious, living woods. The whole country- 
side dips into deep little valleys and rises quickly 
again into triumphant, rock-crowned hills wherever 
the eye wanders, with a vigor of outline that is very 
refreshing. In the midst of it all stands our sedate 
old homestead, and that you would love — it is so 
white and sunshiny on the outside and just as tidy 
and airy within. To be sure 'our Joe,' as they call 
the 'boss,' and the farm men use the kitchen as a 
constant thoroughfare, and everything from torn 
straw hats to ox-whips may mark their trail. But 
Miss Mattie is just as unrelenting in her orderliness 
as you are, and the pies never seem to burn or run 
over, no matter how often she stops to 'set the men's 
things just out in the work-house!' 

"I wonder how my chief friend in the household, 
Mrs. Fenlej-, would impress you? I think you 
would love her. You would appreciate, I know, her 
corner in the living-room, with its three sunny, 
snowy-curtained windows filled with ferns and ivy 
and flowers. And here, when she is not busy about 
the house, she sits in her flow-ered rocking-chair with 
the high back, and tats or winds rags for rag rugs, or 
skilfully reseats chairs with heavy string or strips 
of some stout stuff or other. 

"As she sits in this old homestead living-room, 
filled now with essentially modern furniture, and 
gazes quietly out past the swaying hollyhocks and 
larkspur, I sometimes wonder whether the sunlit 
hills are not dearer to her than to others, through 
an intimate sense of their age. 

"Well, well, I must stop my dreaming. Supper 
was over some time ago, and it occurs to me that 
even the muffled clatter of dish-washing is no more. 

'I hi- i- the hour when I love besl to find myself one 

of i he family < irele, 

1 rood-night, and another good you. 

J >on'l worry about either my health or my painting; 
this life i- doing both an infinite amourr 

IIp writer closed the letter, blew out hi- candle 
and stood for a few silent momenta looking out at 
hi- open window on the -oft. dimness of the world in 
the early starlight. It was the hour that he loved 
besl out-of-doors as well a- in. 

As he entered the living-room he -aw that t: 
yellow light from the center-table lamp included 
within it- hovering circle the other memb<r- of the 

"Well." spoke up Mi-- Mattie cheerfully, looking 
up from the broom covers that she was n 
"it's a blessin' to ketch sight of a peaceful face like 
yours, Mr. Norris, I must say! Joe her 
crotchety as ever — the whole day gone 
Not's I blame him, truth to tell. One whole I 
hay fell — how was it. Joe. it fell? Here. Mr. N 
this chair sets easiest." 

But Mr. Xorris did not take the big chair that 
was wriggled toward him crab-wise; he crossed the 
room and brought out a rather shabby 
gammon board from a low stand behind Mrs. Fen- 
ley's chair. Mrs. Fenley laid aside her tatting with 
an assenting smile and smoothed out her lap to re- 
ceive the board. The rubber of backgammon was 
the social event of the day for Mrs. Fenley. and she 
always prepared for it by running her wrinkled 
hands tentatively over her kerchief and the little 
scrap of lace, with its quaint pendant side-tabs, 
which capped her silvery hair. 

As Xorris drew in his chair and set about sorting 
out the pieces, "our Joe" was saying. 

"An" then we were with a storm in the sky an' 
two fields not even stacked yet — an' the first load 
dumped! 'F I c'd sense what fool man loaded thet 
wagon so's t would dump all oxer the road an' 
keep th' other two right behind it to get rained on 
out there! Ef I just could! An' if 't wan't hay 't 
'ud be somethin' else." 

"Joe. a sight of contrary things happen to you. 
seems to me," remarked Miss Mattie. with one eye 
and her mouth screwed up in the process of thread- 
ing her needle. 

"Well, you'd think so. ef on top o' that the whole 
kit and boodle of them summer boys an' girls hed 
come askin' fer the big team to take them to a par- 


ty — an' none of them c'n drive the big team. Yon 
know i hey can't , Mat." 

"There!" came Mrs. Fenley's eager voice. 
"That's .mother of your men gone, Mr. Norris! - party arc they goin' to, Joe?" 

"Sonic old-fashioned dress-up thing over the 
hill, ez I hear; ever'body's goin'. They's too many 
parties these days, anyhow," and, grumbling, he 
subsided behind a newspaper. 

The little old lady cast him a glance that was 
half scornful, half wistful. 

" Mclihc they didn't hev lots of parties when you 
were young, nephew," she said, "but in my day — 
ah!" And that indrawn breath and her bright eyes 
told Xorris how she had loved them. 

" Did you dance at them, Mrs. Fenley? " he asked, 
as he picked up her dice for her. 

"Oh, yes," she told him, "though I don't s'pose 
you'd call it real dancin' now. It's a long while 
sence I went to a dancin' party." 

"Then we must have an old-fashioned — a — a 
'girlhood' party, and you and your friends show us 
how to really dance — oh, Mrs. Fenley," he urged 
enthusiastically, "wouldn't you?" 

The wrinkled old hands gathered up the dice very 

"No, it wouldn't be the same, Mr. Norris. There 
ain't one of my girlhood friends this side of the 
grave." Her voice grew a little muffled, and dropped 
till Norris could hardly make out that she was talk- 
ing to herself. 

"No, not one single one left," she was saying, 
"no matter how often you make b'lieve they are. 
Not Judith, nor dear 'Liza — nor — " The low 
voice trailed off into silence. Norris glanced at "our 
Joe;" he was sound asleep, and his limp hand seemed 
to be holding his pipe by nothing but magnetism. 
Miss Mattie was inspecting her last broom-cover 

"That does put me in mind though, Aunt Fen- 
ley," she said, as she folded up her work for the 
night, "that you an' Joe an' I're all wanted at the 
party. An' you, too, Mr. Norris — ever'body. 
Young Mis' Ansell's havin' it, an' she calls it an 
'old-fashioned neighborhood' party. It's fer young 
an' old. It'll be a gre't fuss to ever find clothes 
enough — old-styled ones, you know — but it'll he 
right nice to see ever'body else's. I mind I used to 
love to dress up so— years ago. You'd ought to get 
a sit;ht o' pleasure out of it, aunt," she ended, with 
a kindly thoughtfulness. 

"Oh, I love parties," answered Mrs. Fenley, with 
recovered brightness, "an' it's real nice of Mis' 
Ansell to want me. A neighborhood party ought to 
be real nice, too. But I don't know — I don't know's 
I set gre't store by an old-time party without old- 
time people. You see how it is," she added a little 

anxiously to Norri-, for she knew that he under- 

Finally it came, the morning of the famous 
neighborhood party, and there certainly was "a 
gre't fuss" to sort out of all the trunkfuls of old 
clothes those that would go at all together. Miss 
Mattie's patience was almost exhausted. She had 
been lending things from her attic to nearly even- 
one in the community, it seemed to her, but she had 
saved out enough for costumes for Mr. Norris, Joe 
and herself. Mrs. Fenley, thank fortune! was 
"doing" her own. 

"Miss Mattie!" Norris called despairingly in the 
midst of his morning smoke on the back porch. 
An oven door slammed; and then a business-like 
voice issued tartly through the kitchen window. 

"Well?" it said. 

"I can't be a deacon, I haven't any bell hat. 
And deacons always wore bell hats — you know 
they did, Miss Mattie." 

"Oh, Mr. Norris!" called a voice from the gar- 
den, at these words; and Norris left the back porch 
and wandered down to join Mrs. Fenley among the 
flowers. Her faded blue sun-bonnet bobbed here 
and there above and among the rose-bushes, and 
the bee laden hollyhocks, in their languid swaying, 
cast faintly-scalloped shadows across her folded 
white kerchief and her white morning apron, as her 
hands busied themselves with pruning, straighten- 
ing, tying up, and all the other absorbing garden 
duties. Norris had stood there for some minutes in 
silence before she turned and caught the affectionate 
smile in his eyes. Her own smiled back with the 
friendliness of a kindred spirit, despite the wrinkles 
that surrounded them. 

"You shall be a deacon," she told him right 
away, "f'r I know I have a bell hat of my father's. 
You come up garret with me till I find it." 

"Oh, fine! I knew I was destined to be a deacon, 
Mrs. Fenley, and you are an instrument of provi- 
dence! Let me take your watering-pot to the tool 
house, and tell Miss Mattie on the way that I have 
the hat. I'll meet you up garret." 

When he pushed open the attic door a few min- 
utes later he found Mrs. Fenley laying things out 
from her own little old trunks with an absorbed cue. 
Norris' eyes grew tender as he watched her smooth 
each dress so caressingly before she laid it down. 
Finally she held up a pair of white, almost heel- 
less slippers. 

"Those," she told him a little wistfully, "are my 
wedding slippers; and I've danced in them, too. I 
b'lieve I c\\ wear them now !" 

With hands that trembled a little, she thrust off the 
slippers that she was wearing and actually suc- 
ceeded in drawing on the others. She rose quickly 
to her feet and put off her apron, and Norris drew 



I, ,i< I into i he ihadow and i he i obwi bs to wati h. 
I hi eye hone iol tlj and hei i heeka were quite 
pink with dai ing as h< began to dan< e. 
'I he Bun slanted dimlj a< ro her silvery hair and 

i In- i ap wii li ii gi ni I hit. ing tab , and a< ro 
whiteness of her ken hief. I hough her fi 
wrinkled and twi ted, yel she held out her lull skirt 
ni each side with girlish grace; and girlish, too, was 
the grace of her curl i , the turn of her laci 
i apped head and her demure pirouette. A more en- 
chanting sight Norris had never seen. When, th< 
spell being broken, she ran back to the trunk in 
confusion and tried to laugh at herself and her 
"nonsense," he led her hack into a sober happim 
by saying earnestly, 

"Don't please, dear 'Aunt' Fenley." And then 
there was silence until she thrust the black bell hat 
into his hand wii h a gay little smile and sent him on 
down-stairs with it. Bui she did nol go down for a 
long while. 

That evening, on one side of the supper table sat 
an austere young deacon with very large shoe- 
buckles and an imposing bell hat. And on the other 
side sat a sweet little old lady in her own wedding- 
dress of watered silk, blackish blue in color. The 
snow\-, transparent fichu had long lain in laven- 
der, whose essence mingled delicately with that of 
the mignonette now held in her brooch. Joe and 
Mattie were going to have their supper before they 
dressed, and would come to the party a little late; 
but Mrs. Fenley was eager to be off at once, and 
Norris was very willing. 

"Now, here's my mantle — I wore it to ride over 
to my husband's home in," she said gayly. "Blue 
velvet didn't fall out the sky those days — but my 
father said I sh'd have it. There, now, we're 

"II you see me start to go home real early you 
musn't come too, Mr. Norris. I — I often get head- 
aches at parties, like's not." 

He gave an encouraging little pat to the hand on 
his arm and smiled clown at her. 

"At old-fashioned parties, you mean," he teased, 
ami she confessed with a tremulous little laugh. 
The next minute they were in the house. 

There was a long, wide room with a majestic fire- 
place along one side, and a high-hoy, a spinning- 
wheel and several carved chairs, the envy of the 
country round. The mantel was hanked with su- 
mach and bitter-sweet, the corners adorned with 
pine boughs above and great terns below. A few 
people had gathered already — one or two belles of 
Civil War days; more than one demure maiden 
who was wearing not her own wedding gown, as was 
Mrs. Fenley, but her grandmother's — gowns whose 
sheer simplicity exchanged with their present 
wearers their own half-veiled visions of sweet, long- 

ago roman< e, for th< jo ind z >uth. 

' Gentlemen app flow- 

ered horn 

ape» ta< !< and 
among little maids, in 
-pre. ,d ildrl a nd properly I 
their fir-t party fro< 
where responded I 
young hi- i i - in frills and floun I with new 

ardor when they found their -' 
out in all the grandeur ol 
and lace ruffles. Everywhere the witching 
minders of old da) - dispelled n 
and spiie-, in the geniality of neighborhood reminis- 
cences. Here a quaint little woman in a 
timey flowered dress, a funny formal little bonnet 
with tall flowers nodding wirih 
green spectacles, chatted with a discreet old p 
And then by the door a tall man with an immovably 
ferocious face, in scarlet regimentals, with his great 
sword clanking at hi- heels, doffed his cockaded hat. 
with its white plumes, gallantly to those who : 

The evening flew along in gaiety and long-for- 
gotten memories. The older ladies delighl 
describing to the younger gen xati »n just how and 
when their mothers and grandmothers had worn 
the gowns they now saw, and what bonne - 
ribbons once went with them. The g being 

told how much they "favored" their an> 
when they dressed their hair low and wore t; 
prints and sprigged muslin-. 

If a certain bell-crowned deacon hovered n 
roomy, high-backed chair which held a dear little 
old lady in a lace cap with tabs, and was surrounded 
with people, the little lady did not know it. Her 
eyes were sparkling and her cheeks were flushed 
with excitement and happiness. She was whole- 
heartedly absorbed in renewing her intimacy with 
the clothes of the neighborhood of her day. She 
hardly looked at the people's faces, for the familiar 
clothes breathed out their own personalities to her, 
and she overlooked the identities of the actual 
wearers with happy SUCC( SS 

Finally the evening was over, and Norris pre- 
sented himself before the bright-eyed little woman. 
Sin- sank hack for a moment into the depths ot her 
great chair and let her eyes feast themselves on the 
dear scene. Then she let him help her on with her 
"mantle;" they took their leave, and found them- 
selves walking home in silence among the shadows 
of the moonlight. The lofty dark woods on either 
side of the road, and all the quiet outlying hills that 
dipped now into silvery, mist-filled valleys, accentu- 
ated the stillness and sustained the charm so that 
neither spoke. Then Norris. as he lifted his bell 


hat and held open the little gate for her, asked softly, 


Mrs. Fenlcy held her hands tightly together for a 
moment before she answered. 

"Well," she breathed earnestly, "I've spent all 
this evening with my girl friends — talking clothes! 
I declare I don't b'lieve I was ever meant to be so 
happy as this!" 

Norris watched her eyes shining in the moonlight, 
and his own dimmed a little as she turned and 
smiled rapturously at him. 

"I — I could have burst out crying any minute," 
she told him tremulously, and turned away and 
hurried into the house. 

Harriet Beecher Devan, 1913. 


Slow sinks the sun behind the Western hills; 
Softly the swallow twitters to her mate; 
With silent haste the bee darts home, late 

From meadows where the lonely cricket thrills. 

The dropping dew the flower-cup richly fills 
With jewels to greet the Morn in festal state, 
When Dawn first opens wide her golden gate; 

But now they lie unseen. The laborer tills 

The fruitful field no more. No noise is heard, 
Stilled even is the song of the latest bird. 

Twilight comes forth from out the deepening 

Of forests old, and weaves upon the loom 
Of daily life her thread of hush and peace, 
That for a moment bids man's turmoil cease. 

Doris Fenton, 1913. 

Til E WELLES LEY C O L I. ICG I, \ E ' .'. 


AN air of desertion brooded over the place. 
I In- white s;iikI of I lie yard, usuall) i 

clean and bare as a ballroom Moor where 
ii was visible between the jasmine 

bushes ami dumps of flowering shrubs, was covered 
with berries from the mock-orange trees and the 
lliiicd petals of the crape-myrtle, thai drifted down 
in rosy clouds with every breath of air stirring the 
branches. The green blinds and the big double 

doors were closed and barred. The ivy and lie 

climbing roses were sending runners over porch, 
roof, windows, everywhere they could gel foot- 
hold, and nature seemed to have claimed the place 
for her own. 

Yel on this morning in early May the house 
seemed strangely aloof from its quiet, gray world, 
and its white columns refused to surrender them- 
selves to the mist that rose around them. You 
would have said, if they had been alive, that they 
were waiting for someone, something. The very air 
was charged with their mute appeal, and Uncle 
Noah, driving by on his way to town, was more than 
usually disturbed as he looked up at the house. 
"fore ole place, hit knows they'se all gone, an' 
pears eah hit's jest a-pinin' fer some of 'cm to come 
back. Marse Jamie had orter come back. Ef he 
c'd see hit, he shorely would." 

He shook his gray head, and drove on down the 
sandy road in his ramshackle old buggy. But some- 
how he couldn't get the house out of his mind; so, 
after he had transacted all his business at the one 
"department" store the town boasted, he walked 
over to the "hotel," an unpainted frame building, 
with a veranda running the width of the house. 
Here he found, as he had expected, Mr. Henry 
Timmons, the old family lawyer, reading the 
Charleston Courier. Mr. Timmons greeted him 
cordially, and after asking about Mirandy, the 
children, the crops, etc., said, "Well, Noah, how 
does the old place look this spring?" 

"Hit shore do look bad, Marse Henry. You 
'member how Mis' Em'ly peaked an' pined after 
Marse Jamie went off to school? Well, de ole 
house looks jest lak she did. Hit's enough ter mek 
you cry. Ef Marse Jamie doan come back, I b'lieve 
somethin' about dat placc'll die." 

"Oh pshaw! Noah, your superstitions are run- 
ning away with you. How can a place have any 
feelings, or look peaked, as you say? You need 
some spring tonic." 

"Ef you doan b'lieve me, Marse Henry, you jest 
come out an' see fer you'self. Mis' Em'ly 'd know, 
an' I b'lieve she do know. Ef Marse Jamie knew, 
he'd jes' hatter come back." 

"You know, Noah, that your old Marse Carring- 

tou did not want tie 

thoughl it l/e-t for him to and would you 

wanl dl In ■■• i he- to be unfulfilled? Vou ki 
well as I do what sacrifices he madi 

in i ollege, and how proud I 

We ought not to do anything to ruin the work that 

he -pent his life perfec ting." 

" I knows all dat . Mar-e I bury, an' I know- al*;ut 
Mara ( a'in'ton's disapp'intmenf in htsself, wh<n 
he lei" Washin'ton an' i ome b I 

knowed all he plan- an' all he trouble-,. Warn't I 
wif him ever sence we wuz bof boy-? But I tell 
you, Mar-e Henry, hit ain't no use try in' 
agin' natur. They'se never bin a Montgomery yit 
'at cud stay 'way fum Greenwood. I know 
an' Mis' Em'ly knowed it, but ^he didn't say much, 
cause 'pears lak hit make Marse Ca'in'ton mad an' 
sad, too. Mar-e Jamie done stayed 'way de 
time any uv 'em did. but he's bleeged ter corn- 

"Well, you might as well get the- foolish notions 
out of your head, Noah, for Mr. James Montgom- 
ery i- going to break the spell, if there ever was any. 
I have a letter from him here." fumbling in his 
breast-pocket, "that -ays he has about 
sell the place to Mr. Gilbert, who has been after it 
ever since your old marse died. 'Sou see yoi 
is not as potent as you thought it." This la^t was 
said a trifle sadly, for Mr. Timmons hated I 
Greenwood pass out of the hands of the family he 
had known and loved all his lite. But as he no- 
ticed the expression on Uncle Noah's face, he 
hastened to defend the son of his old friend. "After 
all, why shouldn't he sell Greenwood? It is sadly 
in need of someone to look after it. ami he cannot 
afford to keep it up and live elsewhere. This com- 
ing back here to live is out of the question. Why, 
what could he do here? A man of his talents and 
ability is needed to work for the country, and you 
know very well. Noah, what effect the very air of 
Greenwood has upon one. and how useless it i? t< 
attempt to do any great work and stay there." 

"Tends on what you call great. Marse Henry." 
said the old negro, who seemed to have grown 
older and weaker since the news that Green 
might be sold. "They'se plenty uv work Marse 
Jamie cud do about the ole place, an' dat's de kin' 
uv work he wuz meant ter ^\o. He's de only one 'at 
c'n give Greenwood what it needs, an' et he trys 
to turn he work over to en\ buddy else dere won't be 
no blessin' on enythin' else he 'tempts ter do." 

With this Uncle Noah turned away, unheeding 
what further Mr. Timmons had to say to him. and 
shambled off to the hitching-post, where his little 
old gray mule awaited him. patiently chewing a 


wisp of hay and flapping her long cars drowsily. 
As he unhitched Jinny and stowed away his pur- 
chases in the bottom of the buggy, Noah kept mut- 
tering to himself, "I wouldn't a' thort it uv Marse 
Jamie," and "Won't no good come uv it." Still 
repeating these two sentences to himself, he climbed 
awkwardly into the buggy, and it went creaking 
off down the hot, sandy road. Perhaps, in his agi- 
tation, Uncle Noah had neglected to make sure 
that the harness was all secure, or perhaps it had 
served its purpose as long as it could; at any rate, 
before the queer old vehicle had gotten very far 
out of town the rusty bit of wire that held the old- 
fashioned yoke together around Jinny's neck 
snapped, the yoke slipped, but was held on by the 
rest of the harness, and so was left free to thump 
against poor Jinny's chest. With each thump the 
bit of wire dug into her neck, until the poor animal 
was frantic with pain, and since her master did not 
pay the least bit of attention to her, she. took mat- 
ters into her own hands, and — what had never be- 
fore occurred in the whole course of her existence — 
Jinny bolted. 

Aunt Mirandy, over the tubs in her clean little 
back yard, began to wonder why her spouse tarried 
so late in town. " 'T'ain't 'lections, an' 't'ain't no 
holiday, nur dey ain't no trains to be met dese 
days. What's got into dat old Noah ter stay in 
town so late? Mus' be gwine back ter his old hab- 
its. He's bin right quiet an' stiddy sence de old 
place's bin shet up, but I reckon he's stood it jes 
'bout es long es he cud. Orter hev more sense, an' 
him so ole! V 

But as Uncle Noah didn't appear for dinner, and 
the sun began to get low in the sky without any 
sign of a little gray mule harnessed to a crazy old 
buggy, with the old negro nodding over the reins, 
Aunt Mirandy got truly frightened, until finally, 
not able to stand the stillness and inactivity of 
waiting any longer, she started out down the road. 
She had walked over half the distance to town be- 
fore she saw a familiar figure grazing by the road. 
Surely that was Jinny! but where was Noah? He 
couldn't have forgotten to fasten the mule up, and 
she had started home without him? No, for there 
was no buggy, and - the harness — why, the harness 
was all gone, too, except for the bit and a broken 
pi :ce of rein than dangled from it! Aunt Mirandy's 
heart almost stopped beating, and she sped down 
the road as fast as her size would permit. For once 
she scarcely noticed whether she was in the sand or 
on the hard clay road. A turn of the road brought 
her in sight of what she had dreaded, yet expscted 
to see. The buggy, given to Noah by his old mas- 
ter when he went to bring Mirandy to Greenwood 
to be his wife and Mis' Emily's maid, had made its 
last trip. Beneath its wreck, totally unconscious, 

lay Uncle Noah, his black face streaked with blood 
and dust, and his left arm crumpled under him. 
Mirandy lost no time in freeing him from the 
debris of the buggy, but when she had done that, 
and the old man failed to respond to any of her calls 
or efforts to arouse him, her wits left her entirely, 
and she sank down in the sand beside him, moaning 
and wringing her hands. There is no telling how 
long she might have stayed there carrying on in 
this fashion, if a farmer had not passed that way on 
his way home from one of his fields. He recognized 
Mirandy, and succeeded in arousing her sufficiently 
to answer his questions. By his orders, and with 
his assistance, Mirandy carried Noah a little dis- 
tance from the road to a spring, and bathed his 
face. The cold water revived him, and in the joy of 
seeing her husband alive again, Mirandy almost for- 
got that he might have serious injuries. He had 
been stunned by striking a rock with his head, but 
this wound proved to be very slight. His left arm, 
however, was fractured, and he was so weak 
the shock and the pain that he could not walk. 
Good old Air. Johnson, the farmer, caught Jinny, 
her unwonted spirit having disappeared as sudden- 
ly as it had appeared, and helped Mirandy set 
Noah on the mule's back. "You'd better send for 
the doctor as quick as you get home," he advised. 
"Take good care of Uncle Noah, and he'll be all 
right in a jiffy." 

Try as she would, Mirandy could not put new 
life into her husband's aged bones, and the little 
that was there ebbed slowly but surely away. He 
said very little, but the doctor said to Mr. Tim- 
mons, who was very good about coming out to see 
him, and bringing him things, "The old fellow is 
fretting himself away for something. He hasn't 
much chance to live at best, and he's giving up the 
little chance he has. I don't see what it is he can 
want. He refuses to tell me what the matter is. 
If you can do anything for him I wish you would. 
He and Aunt Mirandy are about the last of the old 
stock left, and I hate to see them go." 

Mr. Timmons heard this speech very thought- 
fully, and at last said, "I believe I know what he 
wants, but I don't know whether I can get it for 
him or not. I'll see what I can do, however." 

Accordingly, he dispatched a letter that after- 
noon to Mr. James Carrington Montgomery, in 
New York, telling him that his father's old servant, 
Noah, was dying, and that it would give him a great 
deal of pleasure and make the going easier if he 
could see his young "Marse Jamie" before he died. 
He, Mr. Timmons, was afraid it was asking too 
much of one so busy as Mr. Montgomery, that he 
should come such a distance for a servant's sake, 
but the poor old fellow had set his heart on his mas- 


iii' return, and he and hie wife were the lasl thai 
were lefl al ' Ireenwood. 

Jame Montgomery fell strangely touched bj 
this letter, formally and even coldly written 
was. Ili- had noticed a growing coldness in the f< ■■■ 
letters he had received from Mr. I immons, parti* u 
larly since he had written the lawyer thai he had 
decided it besl to pari with Greenwood. While 
this grieved him, coming from su< li an old and dear 
friend of his family, he had nol fell anj ill-will 
inwards Mr. Timmons for it, attributing it to his 
advanced age and lonely way of living. Besides, he 
wa a lawyer himself, and could, al times, be as stiff 
and non-committal as any. The tone of the letter, 
therefore, did nol affecl him a much as the matter, 
and he decided that lie would run down to his old 
home for a few days. Naturally impulsive, and, by 
training, quick to carry out his decisions, the day 
after he had received Mr. Timmons' letter found 
him on the south-bound train. He had told his 
partner that he was called South, but would return 
in a lew days, and had put in his bag some papers 
on an important case to look over on his way down. 
I le did not feel in the mood to do this at once, so 
instead he looked over the package of letters from 
his mother and father that he always carried with 
him. He had been too busy of late to read them, 
but he knew their contents almost by heart. His 
mother's were full of tenderness, but always re- 
served, and never very happy. Those of his father 
were lull of references to James' career, and anxious 
questions about his work. In none was any men- 
tion made of the possibility of the son's coming 
home and settling there. In fact, James had been 
home only once since he first started to college, after 
the sudden death of his mother. His father had 
showed so little willingness for him to stay there 
that the boy, in his hurt pride, had resolved not to 
go back until his father showed more desire for him. 
Thus it happened that he was too far away during 
his father's last illness to reach home in time, and 
the explanation contained in his father's last letter 
had given him courage to stay away since. This 
letter was before him now, and he felt the same 
pang in opening it that he always felt; sorrow that 
he had failed to understand his father while he was 
alive; admiration and reverential love for the brave 
spirit that had suffered so much for his sake. It 
was a long letter, but the story that it told was a 
very simple one. "The tradition of Greenwood," it 
ran, "is that it exercises such an influence on the 
lives of those connected with it that they find it 
impossible to live away from it. It is a fact that our 
grandfathers, before the war, and I do not know 
how many generations farther back, have at- 
tempted to leave the place, but they have invariably 
returned. It came to me from my mother, who, 

being a woman, ■.•..!- well 
there, and thou 

Bui I v.. i- ambit ioi; 

ij know I 
impossible it is to li 
an) thing in the world, 
bid- it. 

"I mighl have made something ■! ::. 
know-.' Bui I was nol 

kepi al home with a tutor 
to mingle with other b r 
with a natural r< 

combating the indolence of my -urroundir \% 
married young, and your mother loved the p| 
much and made it so pleasanl thai for a turn 
contenl to -'■■; there and do nothii 
bee inn- dissatisfied again, and finally I -hut up 
Greenwood, and took your mother and you with me 
to Washington. I had friend- there, my name was 
nol unknown, and I easily obtaini 
-onie importance. I thought all my early ami 
were going to be realized, but it 

influences stronger than any human will. I went 
back to Greenwood, merely to -,-.- that thin;.- 
all right, and the bare sight of the place brought 
back the spell. I knew then that my lot 
Greenwood; so I came back with my family. 
know the quiet, purposeless save for the one pur- 
pose I always kept! life I have led since then. I 
was determined that it should be different with \<>u, 
and to that end I encouraged your ambitions, and 
sent you to college, despite your mother's wis 
I know I seemed cruel and almost heartless t>> her at 
times, and I am afraid you have thought me harsh 
and unloving, but you will judge me more kindly 
now that you understand. I wanted you to have 
the life that was denied me. to know the j 
action and achievement. I encouraged your - 
ing away from home, that you might not feel the 
influence of the place. My deepest grief has been 
the thought that you could not understand my 

"The doctor may tell you that he tried to per- 
suade me to leave Greenwood, on the chance of 
saving my life. 1 have always had a tendency to 
weak lungs, which this climate favors. Since your 
mother's death they have been getting - ;iid I 
doubt if a change would have made much differ- 
ence. At any rate. I had a fancy that if I stayed 
here to the end, even, perhaps, shortening my life 
thereby, that you might be kept free from the spell. 
It was a foolish fancy, and of late I have begun to 
feel that what oi sacrifice there was is useless, but 
1 have no regrets. You have been free so far. and I 
pray- you may- remain so. 1 fear your coming back. 
I hate to think oi the place ever being sold, but it 
may be best. I had rather you would do that than 



return to the baffled existence I have led for the 
past thirty years." 

The resl of the letter was of so sacred and tender 
a nature (hat James Montgomery, hardened as he 
had become to sorrow and suffering, could never 
read it without tears in his eyes. He put it away 
unread now, with a fear of showing his emotion that 
made him feel half ashamed, and took from the 
package of letters the last thing he had received in 
his mother's handwriting. It had been found 
among his father's papers after he died, and had 
been forwarded to him. It was a little flat package, 
scaled and addressed in his mothers quaint, fine 
hand, "For my son, when he comes home," and 
James, thinking it some little gift from her loving 
hands, had put it by with a fancy to obey the im- 
plied wish and not open it until he went home. 
He had not known when that would be, but as he 
thought over the past now he realized that he had 
never given up the idea of an eventual home-com- 
ing. Still, he did not think of his present trip as 
anything more than a few days' visit. His father's 
letter seemed to forbid anything more than that, 
and there was nothing more definite in his mind 
than a vague notion that some day he would go 
home to die and be buried at the old place. 

As the train kept getting farther and farther 
South, and he found himself in his own state, pass- 
ing through scenes that had once been so vital a 
part of his existence, his sad thoughts of the past 
gave way to others whose very melancholy was sur- 
prisingly sweet. He had not realized how deep and 
subtle a hold the land of his fathers had upon him. 
He felt as if he had gone back ten years and more, 
and had picked up the chain he had dropped then. 
So strongly did this feeling grow upon him that 
when he got off the train at the tiny station he sur- 
prised Mr. Timmons by the boyish gladness of his 
greeting, and the station-master, watching them 
drive off toward Greenwood, remarked to the oper- 
ator, "It beats all how little some folks change. 
Jamie Montgomery don't look a mite older'n he 
did the last time he was home, and that must be all 
of ten years ago. But he looks happier some way, 
like he had what he wanted." 

The subject of these remarks, in the meantime, 
was plying Mr. Timmons with questions, solicitous 
about Uncle Noah, eager to hear about everything. 
The old lawyer hardly knew what to make of him. 
He had not expected to find him so interested in the 
humble events which filled his own existence. As 
much to sound James as for any other purpose, he 
turned the conversation towards the proposed sale 
of Greenwood. The thing would doubtless have 
been carried through before, he said, if it had not 
been for the very unfortunate accident, that had 
kept them all busy. "And, by the way," turning to 

James, "a funny thing, trivial enough, has kept Mr. 
Gilbert from a final decision. He wants to look over 
the house before he buys it, but I can't find the key, 
high nor low. What makes the thing queer is that 
when the house was closed after your father's 
death no key could be found, and I had one made 
purposely- And now I can't find that. Of course 
the door was never locked in your father's time, so I 
can easily understand the original key's getting 
lost, but I can't for the life of me imagine where the 
one I got can have gone. And I don't like to break 
into the house to let strangers in." 

"No, you must not do that," said James. "But 
there's no great hurry about the sale. I'll have 
plenty of time to think that over after I go back to 
New York, and I may decide not to let the old place 
go, after all. I am not superstitious, but there is 
too much of Greenwood in my blood, and too much 
of my blood in Greenwood for us to separate easily. 
Let's don't talk about it now." 

While he was talking, Mr. Timmons had turned 
into a by-road that led them to Noah's cabin with- 
out passing by the big house. He hardly knew why 
he did it, but he felt that he did not want to be 
present when his companion should first see his old 
home. He talked to him steadily until they reached 
the cabin, so that James would not notice the way 
they were going. 

Aunt Mirandy came to the door at the sound of 
wheels, and, thinking Marse Henry had a stranger 
with him, put on her most dignified manner to re- 
ceive them, or at least attempted to, though it was 
sadly marred by the unmistakable traces of tears on 
her cheeks. What was her astonishment when the 
tall stranger seized both of her hands, gave each of 
her swollen cheeks a heart}' kiss, and cried, with a 
little break in his voice, " Why, Aunt 'Randy, don't 
you know your 'little lambie?'" At that she knew 
him, and clasping him in her arms, cried over him 
in sheer joy, until a sound from within recalled her 
to the present. "Oh, honey," she said, "yo'se jes' 
come in time. Ef anythin' '11 cure Noah, the sight 
of yore blessed face'll do it," and, running to Uncle 
Noah's bed, she raised his fever several degrees by 
her excitement and incoherence. If James had not 
gone over to the bed and calmed her, she would soon 
have had the poor old man dead of bewilderment. 
As soon as he realized that it really was his young 
Marse Jamie who was before him, an expression of 
perfect content settled on Noah's face. He lay 
there quietly, listening to his young master talk, 
and only opening his lips once in a while to say. " I 
knowed you'd come back." But the excitement had 
been too much for him, and Mr. Timmons and 
James could tell that his life was rapidly ebbing 
away. Mirandy, less acute, and feeling sure that 
her husband would recover now that Marse Jamie 

THE WELLESLKY ( : O L L K (j K \ I- 7. 

was hack, had gone "iii to ''! mum- daintii 
her "lambie's" supper, and they could hear her 
stirring aboul in the kitchen, humming "Hi 
lily ob de valley, de bright an' mornin' 
These sounds stirred Uncle Noah to a momentarj 
gleam of life. " M 'randy ain'1 Bung dal ien< e 
sence Mis' Em'ly died," he whispered. Jam< 
dimmed, and he fell his throal grow tight. He pu1 
ln's own firm hand over the dark, wrinkled old one 

on the COVerlel and said huskily, "We'll hear her 
siiij; il lots of limes more, won't we, I in le Noah?" 
But Uncle Noah was losl again, and did not hear 
him. There was a long silence, except for the 

cheerful sounds from the kitchen. Suddenly Noah 
opened his eyes wide, looked at his young mi 
with a smile, and said, "Dal wuz de lies' piece uv 
work ole Jin ever done." James and Mr. Tim- 
mons leaned over him, startled, then raised their 
heads and looked at each other. Uncle Noah was 

The house was a gray ghost in the twilight when 
James came slowly up the drive and leaned against 
the gate. He had not felt like coming there directly 
after he had left Aunt Mirandy and her dead to the 
ministrations of the neighboring darkies, so he had 

been revisiting the favoril 

Without realizing i>. he had be lly slipping 

bat I. into the old way of I hours 

all the old ii' . which be had thought broken for- 
ever, had been reknil and trebl; 

And now that he 3tOod in the pn 
think of no filler term of his old horn- 
laid hold of him jo tirmly that he did no- 
lo resi i . I he word- of hi- lather- lettei 
to him, Ian he -av. them in a different li^ht. He- 
had tasted life, I. ut had not yel found content. 
"What if mine were the lesser duty, the <, 
lite.'" he asked himself. Hi- fingers, -ii- 
searching hi- pocket, touched - - hard. He 

drew it out; it was his mother's <x my 

son, when he i omes home." he read. Hi 
and found an old-fashioned \>x-. 

slip of paper. The writing wa 1 he could 

scarcely read it in the dusk. "Mj - >n, you have 
made your mother very happy." That was all. 
Scarcely conscious of hi- actions, James cr — ed the 
yard and mounted the steps. He i mo- 

ment, then firmly fitted the key in the lock and 
flung wide the heavy door. He had come home. 
Acnes Rockwell. 1912. 

m-&"& — £^-e; 






H.W KVT you mil |icm])1c who said to you, 
"Oh, I saw such a pretty sight this after- 
noon," and then, when you asked them ii was, hesitated and looked puz- 
zled, and perhaps managed to tell you it was a 
child playing with a kitten, or a vine growing on a 
fence, or a white cloud in the sky, and ended by 
lamely saying they really couldn't describe it? 
Nine times out of ten, if you'd been there with 
them, you would have seen them give one look, 
murmur — "How lovely," and hurry on as if some- 
thing were chasing them. They might about as 
well not have looked. If a thing is worth looking at 
at all, it is worth looking at well, as I believe, so 
w henever I see a pretty picture I stop right then 
and there, unless it's a matter of sickness or death, 
or very good news, until I have it all stored away in 
my mind and can get it out and look at it again 
whenever I want to. 

That was what I was doing one late May after- 
noon, the spring after the big blizzard, stowing 
away in my mind a picture of the Merrimans' big, 
old-fashioned house, all white among the trees, and 
with even- window afire from the setting sun. As I 
looked and looked, the big front door opened and 
Faith Merriman came out. I knew she didn't see 
me or she would have waved her hand, so I just 
stood still and watched her, for I wanted to see 
what she would do when there was no one around. 
You see it was time for her husband's ship to be 
coming back, and we knew she'd be waiting eagerly 
for it, for it was the first time the boy had gone with 
him for such a long trip, way to China and back. 
But we hoped she hadn't begun to worry about 
them, for it's not good to live in a big house like 
that with nothing but a dog and a worry for com- 
pany, and we had decided that as soon as Faith 
Merriman showed the least signs of worry, someone 
would go and stay with her, whether she liked it or 
not. That was all very well to decide, but it was 
another matter to find out if we were needed. 
There arc some people who are always just the 
same, on the outside, always pleasant and calm, no 
matter what sort of a disturbance is going on inside. 
In fact, the harder time they are having all by them- 
selves the calmer and more self-contained they are 
with others, until you almost want to pinch them 
to see if they can jump. That is, you do unless you 
understand, and then you want to take them right 
into your arms and make them cry. 

Well, Faith Merriman was just such a person. 
Only, I think, it was partly her mother's training 
that made her that way, and not all her own nature. 
Once, when she was just a slip of a girl, I went after 
her, when her mother had been lecturing her for 

some fifteen minutes for calling across the street to 
a friend, and I found her, not crying as I had ex- 
pected, but standing in the garden throwing stones 
just as hard as she could at an old cup she had stuck 
upon the fence. There was something about her 
then that went better with her unruly curls and 
the tinge of red in their gold, than did her company 

So I was glad I had a chance to watch her for a 
minute, though my conscience did prick a bit, and 
soon I felt justified, for the first thing she did was to 
shade her eyes with her hand and look down the 
road, and then sit down on the steps, watching and 
watching the turn at the top of the hill, where one 
got the first glimpse of anyone coming from the 
city. I wasn't near enough to see her face, but I'd 
seen others watching for husbands and sons to come 
back from the sea, and I knew the look that there 
would be in her eyes. 

There was no question about it. She had begun 
to worry. 

I didn't know whether she'd want to see me or 
not, but I knew I wanted to talk to her, so I walked 
forward a few steps and then called. She turned 
around with a start, and then came down the path 
to meet me. 

"Why, Aunt Mary!" — she always called me 
aunt, having grown up with my oldest brother's 
children — "why, Aunt Mary, how did you ever get 
so far from home? I thought when people came to 
be grandmothers they sat at home and knit baby 
socks, and let their friends come, to see them." 
She smiled a little, and took my hand. "How is 
the baby?" 

"The baby is quite well, thank you," I said, pre- 
tending to be very dignified. "But as for my sitting 
at home knitting baby socks, well — you'll be doing 
it yourself before many years, Faith Merriman, for 
if ever I saw two young people just made for each 
other, it's your boy and John Mason's girl, and 
they seemed to be of the same 'way of thinking 
themselves, before he went away." 

I felt her hand tighten a little on mine. It wasn't 
a very tactful remark, but I wanted to give her a 
chance to talk if she felt like it. She didn't, though, 
and for half an hour we sat on the steps talking 
about the village children, and the school-teacher, 
and the last church supper, and every- thing under 
the sun except what we were both thinking about. 
Finally it got to be dark, and I decided to take mat- 
ters in my own hands and speak right out. 

"It's time you had your supper," I said, after a 
pause in the conversation, "and I'm going to ask 
myself to it. It's no use your pretending any 
longcr. You're worrying and not eating anything, 

T II E \V E I. I. ESLE V ( L I. EG I 


and getting thin and peaked. Whal do you »up 
pose your husband will think ol us when h( comi 
back and finds you looking like .1 fright, and we all 
Bitting around and doing nothing aboul it?" 

" Bui " she I" 

" I'ni nol hing," I Baid. "Il .ill 1 ome ol j our 
living here all alone and brooding over your own 

1 [ hi--. Why, child alive, they'll be coming home 

all safe and Bound in ;i week or bo. It's onlj four 
weeks since 1 he Wilson boj 1 ame homi . am 
know he said your ship ftad ju 1 1 on 1 into porl to 
gel supplies as they were leaving, and expected to 
ta there a week. Now three weeks is nol 3uch a 
very long time for .1 ship to be b< hind hand. Good- 
ness me, the last time your John w< nl on a trip like 
this lie was three months, nol Mine week-, late get- 
ting home, and we all thoughl he was lost. You 
said thai time you'd never doubl the Lord's - 
ness again, bu1 I shouldn'1 say you were tni 
Him very hard jus) now. lie's broughl John Mer- 
riman safe home from off thi ea good many 
1 imes, and so far as I can judge He's no call to have 
any grudge against the boy." 

Then I stopped. I wanted to sil up close to her 
and mol her her as I would my own girl if she were 
unhappy, bu1 there she sat, boll upright, her hands 
folded in her lap, never saying a word after thai 
"but," nor moving a muscle, just, watching down 
the road. Such people do make things so terribly 
hard for themselves, and for others, too. I didn'l 
say anything mon — there wasn't anything more to 
say until I could find out how she'd taken what 
I'd already said, so I just sat quiet, thinking. 

And what I thought most about was that time, 
some fifteen years before, when John had gone off 
on that other Ion -fool trip to China, and came home 
so late. And 1 hoped she was thinking about it too. 

The boy was only five then, and a lovelier little 
chap you never saw. He was fair like his mother, 
with curly hair and big blue eyes, and a face like an 
angel's; and such a bright little fellow. The mother 
had no thoughts for anyone or anything besides 
him, except to wish that the lather would hurry 
home to see what a splendid boy his baby had grown 
into. She taught the child to recognize his father's 
picture and to call him "daddy," and to want to 
grow up to be just such a man. 

"Only," she said to me once, "I do so hope he 
won't want to go to sea. I don't know as I could 
stand it, to have them both gone.'' 

But the call of the sea was in his blood, and when 
he'd grown to be sixteen or seventeen, she couldn't 
keep him home any longer. A fine boy he was then, 
too, tall and broad-shouldered, with a clear eye 
that looked straight into yours. Not that he was 
too good to live long, there was no danger of that, 
but his mischief was never mean, and when he got 

punishment. And 

1 ould \« 
10 h« r, in hi- opinion. I' 
gel her, lor cai h Ol 
through fin 

one mat ter he had • 

t hi sea rang too loudly in 

and so he started '•■ -■>■'■ ■'■ il 

short trip 

mate on tin- long one. And thi n the I 

gone pasl . one afti r another, and ••• 

and once or twii 

coming -hip-, and now li. 

weren't, and we two women n the 

steps, in tin- dark, thinkii 

many years before. And i 

ing, w hen t he whole \ ill - 

John Merriman back from the sea, and I 

the lit tie figure w ith tousled curls that met us at the 

door, crying in an excited bal 

" M\ daddy ha- come hi n I . my dadd 
home, and he'- broughl my muv> funny 

dishes w if lit t le men all over 'em ! " 

I came back i<. the presen v ith a s rt, I 
had an idea. 

"Faith," I -aid. "didn't John bring . with 

him that time some queer china with soi 
heathenish name? I haven't seen it for .1 1< ng 
time. You go gel a couple of cup- and we'll drink 
our tea out of them." 

Se we went inside and lighted the lam; - 
a little tea party all by ourselves. Faith - 
warmed up with the tea and something I 
I got her to tell me about the china, and wl 
linn John had had getting it. and how he'd 
special care of it all the way home, and finally 
brought it to her the first time he came out. : 
something would happen to it. h did h 
talk about the old memories, and when 1 left her 
she kissed me shyly and whispered she was afraid 
she had been foolish. 

I left her alone that night, but the next day I 
took over a few things and announced that I had 
come to pay her a visit. And I stayed, though she 
protested that the baby would probably have 
something dreadful if I were away. That even- 
ing there was no watching down the road, but once 
or twice 1 caught her listening. Finally we went up- 
stairs, and after 1 heard her bed creak I went in 
and tucked her up and kissed her good-night, 
grown woman as she was. She didn't say a word, 
but I'd hardly expected it. What I hoped was that 
the pleasant unusualness of it would give her 
something to think about so that she would sleep. 

I think she did sleep better that night, for it was 
a fairly bright smile that greeted me the next morn- 



ing when I came down-stairs late, to find breakfast 
ready and waiting. 

"I'm ashamed of myself," I said, as I caught 
si.nlu of the breakfast table. "Why didn't you call 
me? " 

"O, I thought you needed one good night's rest 
after taking care of that grandchild of yours for so 
long," Faith answered, "but I'll pay you back later 
and make you weed out my pansy bed for me. It 
hasn't been done for two weeks." 

And, true to her word, after breakfast was over, 
she took me out to the big flower-bed by the house 
and set me to work on what seemed a hopeless tan- 
gle of pansies and chickweed. As we worked there 
together, the big stage that brought the mail from 
the city rumbled past, and I noticed that Faith's 
lips whitened a bit when she heard it, and that after 
it was gone, she was uneasy and kept looking down 
the road towards the village. After a little while 
she suggested that we go around to the front steps 
and rest there in the shade for awhile. I knew well 
enough what the trouble was, she was waiting to 
see if the postmaster's boy would bring her out any 
mail. I almost hoped he wouldn't, for I was afraid 
just then of any word that the captain or the boy 
didn't bring themselves. Then, just as I was be- 
ginning to feel safe, I caught sight of the boy coming 
down the road, waving an envelope over his head. 
Faith saw him as soon as I did, but she didn't stir, 
except for a little catch in her breath, until he had 
nearly reached the gate, and then she got up and 
walked slowly down the path to meet him. 

He was all hot and excited, and full of curiosity as 
to what was in the letter from the city, but I sent 
him off to get some cookies that were on the kitchen 
table, for 1 knew Faith couldn't read the letter 
while he was there. Her lips grew whiter and 
whiter as she turned back to the steps and sat 
down, but her fingers never trembled as she slowly 
tore open the envelope and drew out the single 
sheet of paper. I turned away to let her read it 

When I looked around again, wondering at her 
strange silence, I almost screamed. The letter had 
fallen to the steps and lay open there, but I didn't 
mill to read it, her face told plainly enough what 
was in it. I touched her on the shoulder, but she 
paid no attention, so I waited a few minutes. Then 
I spoke to her and shook her a little, but even that 
didn't do any good. Finally I grew desperate; the 
boy would be back again in a little while, and he 
must not see her looking like that. By sheer 
strength I got her to her feet and took her into the 
house. After I'd made her sit down in a big chair 
and had wrapped a shawl around her, for, warm as 
it was, her hands were icy cold, I went out to find 
the boy. 

He was deeply interested in a big plate of cookies, 
and looked around at me with a broad smile which 
suddenly disappeared when I told him to run back 
to the village as fast as he could and send out the 
doctor, for Mrs. Merriman had had bad news. 

He hurried away with a frightened face, and I 
went back to Faith. She still sat with that same un- 
seeing look on her face, and nothing I could do 
roused her in the least. Then I did what I'd never 
done in my life before, I deliberately read another 
person's letter. Somebody would have to do it, if 
she couldn't tell us what was in it, and I seemed to 
be the one there. 

It wasn't very long, just about six lines, saying 
that the ship had gone down in a big storm some 
three weeks before, and not a soul had escaped. 
That was all, but it was enough. I didn't wonder 
Faith sat there as if someone had struck her. I 
gave up trying to rouse her, and waited. 

At last the doctor came, and several others with 
him, for news spreads like wildfire in a small town. 
I sent them out to the kitchen while the doctor and 
I got Faith up-stairs to bed. Then I went down to 
tell them what I knew, while he worked over Faith, 
trying to rouse her. But she paid no more atten- 
tion to him than she had to me, and finally he said 
she must sleep, it was the only hope. So he gave her 
a sleeping powder and told me to rest while he 
stayed with her. 

She la}' there in a half trance for several days, 
and then, slowly, she began to take notice of things, 
and pretty soon was up and around the house just as 
before. But she wouldn't talk to us, any more than 
to say just "yes" and "no," and a few little things 
like that; and she didn't seem to notice us when we 
were talking, but to be living far away, in a world 
all her own, neither a glad world nor a sad one, but 
one entirely apart from that in which we live. Per- 
haps it was a merciful thing that she had those weeks 
of dazed unrealization in which her body might 
grow strong again after the strain of anxiety and the 
sudden shock of bad news, for when she did begin 
to realize what had happened, as she did after 
a while, she suffered as I hope never to see a woman 
suffer again. And she suffered so terribly because 
she couldn't express it, because her pride would not 
let her admit it to anyone, even to herself. Her 
heart was wearing itself away, aching and aching for 
those she might not sec again, and there was noth- 
ing to ease it. Their bodies lay at the bottom of the 
sea, near a shore she had never seen, and she must 
go on living among scenes she had always known, 
eating and sleeping and pretending to be content. 

Sometimes I think that what seems to us at the 
time the hardest, the looking on the faces of those 
we love, after the part that is really them has gone 
on into eternity, is what reallv makes it easiest in the 



end, for we know, we mil I n alizt . and I h( 
thai ' ome afterward i do not mot I: u quite a mui h 
by being so mu< h alike and yel »o different from the 
daj thai wenl before. There has been a break to 
,ii count for the difference. Bui to be longing for the 
sighl oi .1 face and the Bound of a voice, to be wail 
ing da after day, hoping thai each day, ea< h hour, 
the one you love will come to you, and then to go on 
longing, day after day, the only difference being 
thai you have looked al a few strange bla< k marks 
on a piece of white paper, and have suddenly real- 
ized thai the face you loved lay under the w 
and that the voice you longed for would never be 
heard again, except in your memory, that is almosl 
unbearable, for you rebel against it; you eanno! 

make yourself believe it. 

And Faith Merriman went on longing and long- 
ing for the husband and son who would never come 
again, and though as time went on she took more 
and more her old place in the village life, the old re- 
serve grew, and grew stronger, till one day, as I 
walked clown the road at sunset time, I found her 
watching the turn at the top of the hill, and this 
time she didn't hear me when I called her. And yet 
she didn't yield passively to this feeling. I could see 
in her eyes at times a desperate, almost angry strug- 
gle to be her old self again. The red in her curls 
was doing its best to save her. And after others 
said that there was no hope, that mind or body 
must soon break, I pinned my faith on those curls, 
and waited. 

I got in the way of going over almost every after- 
noon for a few minutes, for though someone stayed 
with her nights she wouldn't have them around in 
the daytime, and I thought that she sometimes 
liked to have me with her. But as the weather grew 
colder I went less and less often, and each time it 
seemed to me that matters were going soon to reach 
a climax. And yet there wasn't anything to do but 
let nature take her own best way, and stand by 
ready to give a helping hand when it was needed. 
"If only there may be someone by when the time 
comes," I prayed each night. 

Finally there came a glorious day, early in 
November, one of those days, after winter has ap- 
parently come to stay, when the bright sun and the 
wonderful clear air, that makes you twenty instead 
of fifty or sixty, or whatever it may be, flatly con- 
tradict those gloomy people who say that fall means 
only death, and mourn the going of summer. Why, 
to my mind, there is no time of all the year that has 

it it than 
is brighl and there i- a good bil of fro-t in tl 
IT- the kind of weather when i do mira- 

cles, and think nothing about it. 

Well, it was j 
the Merriman house and found th<- front 
and nobody in the front part of th< 
quite ai home there by that time -it on 

through toward the kitchen and opened thi 
I hen I jumped bat k. and if 1 hadn't had hold of the 
door I should < ertainly have fallen >■ 
started to step in something fl< I three 

inches from my nose, and lander! with a crash in the 
opposite < orner. It certainly ■ 

be greeted. And before I'd had tine ■ r my- 

self, something else flew past. But thi^ tirm 
what it was; it was one of those heathi a i ids. The 
pantry door was partly open, and as I stood there, 
one after another, cups and saucers flew out and 
landed in a heap of broken china in the corner. Had 
Faith Merriman suddenly gone mad? It seemed so. 
But I wouldn't believe it yet; someone else might be 
throwing the china. Anyway, there was nothing I 
could do but wait until the rain of cup- and >aucers 

.After what seemed a coupl' - and after 

enough china had come flying out of that pantry 
door to have filled several china clo- - 
seemed, the door opened a little farther, and Faith 
Merriman herself walked out. My heart sank; the 
worst had come then, and her mind had 1 r 
under the strain. Then I looked at her again, 
stood there gazing at the ruin she had wrought, and 
wondered if the look on her face could possibly be 
that of a disordered mind, it was so much 
natural and more earthly than any I had seen there 
since that dreadful night. I stepped back quietly a 
few steps so she wouldn't see me. 

And then I saw her throw up her head with a sud- 
den little shake of her shoulders, as if she were 
throwing off an irksome burden, and say. with new- 
energy in her voice, ".There, I had to do something, 
or I know 1 should have gone mad." 

The red-gold curls had had their say. 

Then her shoulders began to tremble, and with a 
low "Oh John, oh David, and you were so near 
home," she buried her face in her apron and turned 
sobbing into the pantry. The storm had broken. 
I turned quietly and stole away, to wait until the 
tears had eased the weary heart, and broug 
healing peace. KATHARINE PARDEE, iou. 





In the midsl ol the 'lark forests of the Adiron- 
dacl -, where the sun only penetrates the interlaced 
roof in spots, and makes ;i yellowish-green stencil 
n on the dead leaves and moss-covered logs, 
the honey-bee often makes his home. In the lowest 
branches of a hollow tree a swarm of bees circles 
'rmincl and 'round. These tiny insects have to fly 
for miles to collect the honey they store away. For, 
with the exception of a few clearings, all is dark 
woods, where no flowers grow. The clearings are 
usually burnt grounds. Here the bees hum con- 
tentedly over the golden-rod, glowing in the warm 
sun, between charred logs, and fly back to their tall 
tree to store away the honey. 

It is rather difficult to find these trees, and some- 
times takes several days. The bee-hunter catches 
an insect in a little wooden box, containing sugar on 
a honey-comb. He shuts the lid and waits for a few 
seconds until the bee has gathered the sugar. Then 
he liberates it and watches its flight. The insect 
circles upward, until it reaches a height above all 
the trees, and then flies in a direct line to the hive. 
After catching several bees, the box is moved nearer 
and ever nearer in the direction in which the bees 
fly, until the forest is reached. Then the hunter 
calculates the distance to the tree by the time it 
takes the bees to return to the box for more sugar. 
He notes the direction, and disappears into the 
black woods to search for the tree. When he 
reaches the spot where it ought to be, he examines 
every likely-looking tree. Those that are tall and 
perhaps hollow, but not decayed, are the usual 
choice of the swarm. It does not take long before 
In sees the tiny insects swarming out of a round 
hole, and the bees have been tracked to their lair. 

\\ hen the hunter has found the tree, he returns 
home to collect his materials for getting at the 
honey. Soon the axe has bitten a piece out of the 
trunk, and the men sway back and forth at the saw, 
which eats deeper and deeper into the trunk. There 
is i i rash, and the angry bees hum and blacken the 
air, Hying around the now empty spot, where their 
home was but a minute ago. Then the men put on 
heavy coats, tying the sleeves tightly to their 
wrists with cord, and pull gauntlets up over their 
hands. A broad-brimmed straw hat, draped with 
white cheese-cloth that falls over the shoulders, 
completes the odd figures. They build a fire under 
the hoie in the trunk, for the smoke drives the bees 
off. Again the hatchet rings, as the wood, little by 
little, is cut away until the hollow is reached. Bees 
darken the eir in a frantic attempt to sting their 

enemy. The comb, sticky with honey, is black with 
their half-stupefied bodies. 

Then the tin pails are placed beside the tree to 
carry the honey home in, and piece after pi 
comb, with bees clinging to the yellow, oozing honey, 
is dropped into them. Often a great deal of empty 
comb is found, its tiny, snow-white squares gaping 
open to be filled. But for this, the hollow is left 
empty, the only remnant being the shiny coating of 
honey, left on the inside walls. Then the men 
shoulder the pails on long poles and steal away, -till 
pursued by a few unsubdued bees. The swarm is 
left to starve and die in the cold winter, unless the 
hunter has foresight enough to leave some honey or 
sugar to keep the bees alive, so that he may gather 
their honey the following year. 

Pauline Ehrtch, 1915. 


Lumbering in Southern Alabama! The vcry 
woods are pregnant with witchery. A great ex- 
panse of gleaming white sand; sere brown spots of 
parched vegetation; tall, slim pines rising without 
branch or twig for twenty-five or thirty feet, and 
then breaking forth into feathery green: little 
clusters of weather-beaten shacks huddled together, 
all their sordidness visible in the intense white sun- 
light; the tall, ungainly mill with its never-ceasing 
hum; the railroad, gleaming in the sunshine; and 
always, beyond mill, shanties and pines, the swamp 
— dark, luxuriant, mysterious. 

In the depths of that swamp toil gangs of sweat- 
ing men, shirts open at the throat, sleeves rolled up, 
high rubber boots glistening with mud and water 
as they leap from cypress knob to cypress knob, or 
splash from tree to railroad 'and from railroad back 
to tree. Here is a gang of choppers, always the 
advance guard of civilization. Here and there a tree 
shows the white shine of newly-cut wood; they are 
the ones which have been marked for felling. Al- 
ways it is the tallest and finest trees which bear this 
gash, for only trees of a certain diameter and larger 
are chosen. One minute a huge water-oak stands 
stately and majestic, the next the foreman has 
pointed it out, and white chips are flying under the 
axes of the choppers. Then the whine of the saw as 
it bites into the wood; a moment's adjustment of 
rope and chain; the tree sways creaking back and 
forth; there is a sudden crack, a soft, rushing 
sound, a thud, a splash, and the great tree, a mo- 
ment before so proudly erect, lies prostrate in the 
water of the swamp. Without a minute's delay- the 
men are upon it; again the chips fly as the rhythmic 
blows of the axe ring upon the air. One by one the 



I hi H< hes are Btripped from ii , and soon the m 
trunk, Bcarred and mutilated, i piled up with 
others, waiting to be loaded on the logging train. It 
is a continuous proces . never halting, never varied. 

At Bhorl inten als I he empl . I rain i rati ling 

ba< k, or chugs ou1 , loaded w h h log I he railroad 
is liulli upon piles driven deep into the swamp, and 
ii Bways and quivers as the heavy train rumbles 
along ii ; the one l.ii of modernism in the midsl of 
perpel ual mystery. Tall . I he tre< - rise 

on each side of the track, draped in mourning weeds 
ol long, grey moss. Here some gorgeou flower rears 
its head from the treacherous surface, there a 
swamp bird calls, or a vivid moth hovers above ( li< ■ 
black mud; otherwise all is gloom and quiet. Sud- 
denly, almo>i without warning, the swamp i- ended, 
and the train is once more in a world ol activity. 
Straining oxen, driven by joking, swearing men, 
drag the loads from the cars to the incline. With a 
rat tie, the logs drop on the t rack, the dogs bite deep 
into the wood, and they are on their way to the saw. 

In the mill all is hurry and noise. There is a thud 
as each log drops on the log-carriage; a jar as it 
slides hack and forth against the bumpers; the 
whine of the band-saw as it slips through the wood, 
the whirr of the circular saws, the monotonous call 
of the markers, and under it all the hum ol active 
machinery. Back and forth the log-carriage slides, 
one by one the slabs are cut off, some sawed straight, 
some quartered. Here comes a piece of cypress too 
small to be sawed into boards. It is loaded on the car- 
rier, taken to the circular saw and cut up into 
shingles which are shot down through a chute, to 
be sorted and tied into bundles. 

As each board passes along the carrier it is 
scaled by the marker, and further on is inspected. 
Beyond, where the carrier divides, a sorter is sta- 
tioned. Each piece is sorted according to its scale 
mark. Some are sent to the planing mill to be fin- 
ished, some are merely sent along and dropped on 
the platform, where it is again sorted into lots, ac- 
cording to its mark, and then is piled and covered 
to await, its first seasoning process before it is 

Martha Elise Shoup, 1915. 


When the New England farmer hears the winter's 
accumulation of .snow and ice slipping in sections 
from its resting place on the roof, sees the horses 
slump down into the snow as he drives to the vil- 
lage, finds the meadow brook swelling and breaking 
through its icy barrier, he knows that the "sugaring" 
season is here, and loses no time in getting ready for 

the lir-i " l.i/ • ■ 

Idered and > \> 
renovated, the outdoor fii 
tap- and but kel - to be ■ 

on earth, and • 

through 1! hurry 

through tl 

taps, and hanging the bucket- on l 

ing fire, are kindled, and | 

t he rj thmic "drip, drip" <>i 1 1 

through the whole (.imp 

in "good sap weather," for th t«» fill, and 

then the men and tulder larg 

yokes, balance a bucket on each end. and In-^in the 
business of 1 ollecting. 

While 1 hi- continue- in ., m round, let 

us be a bit inquisitive and find out what th« 
worker- are doing. Tin r - built 

of field -tone, roughly held in place by a thin 
ing of cement. < )ver each of thi se impr ■■■ is d fur- 
11.11 1 - .1 broad galvanized-iron tub I, into 

which the -ap i- poured on tine days, but 
or when the run of sap i- particularly rushing, the 
sugar-house is resorted to. This i- th 
sort of a shack, generally constructed by the farm- 
hands with farm implement-. 

with pitch and spruce gum, make the walls, am] the 
roof is generally protected with several layi rs of tar- 
paper. Rough wooden benches stand against the 
walls. One or two three-legged - fr>>m 

beneath the one home-made table, at the tw 
dened stoves, which balance each other from the 
two nearest corners. On these - 
tubs, similar to those over the fireplaces. Th 
of the room is taken up with 

which the final products are packed. And see. the 
sap has changed from a clear, colorless liquid into a 
light yellow, foaming, bubbling mixtun . which 
breathe- forth an irresistible odor. Involuntarily 
we sniff the air as we catch the first faint aroma, 
eager to inhale the elusive sweetness. Slowly, 
slowly, the yellow darkens, and we are assured by 
the overseers that, with a trifle more boiling, it will 
be read} to " sugar o\\." 

How the news gets about is a mystery. V 
rate it does, and towards evening the 
gather at the sugar-house, each grasping .: 
petite in either hand. Milk pans are packed full of 
clean snow, forks are whittled from hard-' 
branches, and benches are cleared off i^: 
"sugar eat." The sugar, boiled to a golden brown. 
and of a syrupy consistency, is poured over the 
pans of snow, hardening on the cold surface just 
enough to be readily picked up with the prongs 
the main eager forks. Again and again the 
are replenished: pickles, which go hand in hand 



with "sugar on snow," are passed about, and dis- 
appear with incredible rapidity; songs are sung; 
weird stories are repeated, and finally the guests 
depart, leaving the camp with the night workers, 
for the fresh sap coming in cannot be neglected for 


The "taster" goes about, sampling the grade of 
syrup, determining its proper consistency, and 
prophesying the hour of its probably completion. 
When it is pronounced "done," the cans are filled, 
marked with the farmer's name, and packed in 
shipping boxes, to he* sent to the wholesale dealer, 
or some known firm. What syrup is made into 
sugar must be boiled still longer, and then cooled 
and hardened in forms stamped with the farmer's 
initial or seal. Then this, too, is packed for ship- 
ping. Sometimes the sugar-making is carried on for 
two or three weeks, again the season lasts but a few 
days, but during that time the farmer, hired men, 
women and children devote every energy to the all- 
engrossing business of "sugaring," for a great per 
cent, of the farmer's yearly profit depends on his 
sugar products. 

Then let us remember next spring, when we are 
splashing along wet pavements, that, 

"Whatever way the wind doth blow, 
Some heart is glad to have it so," 
and reconcile ourselves to sodden shoes, bedrag- 
gled skirts, and uneven tempers, knowing that such 
weather is quite essential if we would indulge in 
"home-made" maple syrup on our Sunday-morning 

Ruth M. Pierce. 


Shark fishing! Something in the mere sound of 
the words thrills the senses and sets the pulses 
bounding. What more fascinating sport could one 
ask? The first whiff of salt air brings visions. Daz- 
zlingly white, the shore stretches as far as the eye 
can reach; on the other side the dull green man- 
grove trees dip their branches in the dancing wa- 
ter, slim and graceful the palms tower, silhouetted 
against the vivid sky. Far out across the bay the 
creamy surf breaks on a low, white sand-bar, and 
beyond shines the gulf, tiny white-capped waves 
racing over its surface. The fresh tang of salt air, 
the fish} odor of the docks, the pungent smell of 
gasoline from the launch, each 'adds zest to the day. 

A launch, small in size, but with a powerful motor, 
holds the equipment : iron hooks, a foot or so in length 
and as thick as a man's thumb, fastened with five 
or six feel of heavy chain to the woven rope, which 
serves as a fish-line; a sturdy hand-reel of iron, 
clamped to the framework of the boat; and in the 

bow, the bait, large mackerel and lady-fish, their 
silver bodies gleaming in the shadow. The fisher- 
men, judged by the wide straw hats which throw 
a deep shadow on their faces, the soft, open-throated 
shirts, the water flasks slung from their shoulders, 
the rifle which one carries, are obviously past 
masters of the sport. It takes but a minute to get 
settled, the engine coughs and thumps, the pene- 
trating odor of gasoline floats out upon the air, 
there is a great churning of the water, and the 
launch is off. Without delay it chugs its way 
toward the bar. There is a sudden dipping sensa- 
tion, a few minutes of dizzy rising and falling, the 
sharp sting of spray on the cheeks, and the launch is 
riding gaily on the gulf with the surf tumbling on 
the bar behind it. 

This is the day's fishing-ground, and the line is 
prepared. A large mackerel is the bait, the end of 
the rope is fastened to a ring in the bow, the baited 
hook splashes overboard, the surplus rope lies 
coiled in the end of the boat, and all is ready. 
Slowly the morning slips away. The sun climbs 
high in the sky; all the little waves have disap- 
peared, and except for the long, oily swell, the gulf 
lies quiet and glassy in the glare. The heat droops 
over land and water like a veil, and even the fisher- 
men seem to be infected with the prevailing lassi- 
tude. At long intervals one of them tosses a fish 
overboard. It floats lazily for awhile, and then 
there is a shine as of wet silk, a little spot of foam, 
and the fish is gone. So far, however, although the 
floating fish have been snapped up, no adventurous 
shark has even investigated the bait. The sun 
creeps on to the zenith, and the yellow heat haze 
lies closer to the sea. 

Suddenly the rope flashes out and jerks taut. 
The boat leaps like a startled animal, then is borne 
off, first in one direction, then veering suddenly in 
another. Galvanized into action, the fishermen are 
at their places in an instant. The engine pants and 
sputters, then settles down to work, and the battle 
between man and fish is on. Back and forth rushes 
the shark, veering and diving in frenzy, and it de- 
mands careful management to keep the boat from 
upsetting. At each rush it strains and quivers like 
a spurred horse, but now the powerful motors are 
matched against the strength of the shark. One 
minute he seeks to dive into the depths, and the 
launch dips its bow in the water; the next there is a 
streak of glistening black and a track of white 
foam, as he darts madly across the surface. Even 
the management and skill of the fishers seem inad- 
quate at times to prevent the boat from capsizing. 
Twice one of them stands, knife in hand, ready to 
cut the rope if necessary. At last, little by little, the 
dives grow less frantic, each succeeding lunge has 
less force. He is getting tired out. Inch by inch the 



line is reeled in until al la I the big fi h struggles 
feebly bul a few yards from the boat. Now his 
M.ii head and huge, gaping mouth can b< een a he 
vainly si rives to disgorge the heavy hook which is 
firmly imbedded in his jaw bone bef ween I he r< 
wicked-looking teeth. Al length one man picks up 

the rill- . • 

a report, a • 
' om ulsivi lungi and thei 
on his In' k. N'othinf bul the hauling 

the < an a -. 'I he battle i- ended, th 
complete. Martha Eli 





Does the old adage still hold — "To rule well, one 
must learn to obey well?" It may be of interest to 
hear from an old-time foundation brick of the im- 
pressions made by the wise masons who moulded 
her in the good old da% r s of '85. 

All authority was vested in four bodies — the 
President, the doctor, the corridor teacher and the 
head of the Domestic Department. 

The President was responsible for our going out 
and our coming in. The "office" might give per- 
missions to leave town, but all tardiness in return- 
ing must be explained to the President. How tim- 
idlj tour of us came to Miss Freeman in my Sopho- 
more year to explain that the Freshman's mother 
had kept us for supper after our "permitted" drive 
on Monday afternoon! What an occasion it gave 
her to caution us as to Sophomore influence over 

Very infrequent were our journeys to Boston in 
those days. Theaters were forbidden. Once dur- 
ing my four years I saw Booth in "Macbeth," 
during a Christmas vacation, salving my con- 
science with a liberal interpretation of the phrase, 
"while connected with the college," trying to for- 
gel 1 he parting injunction, "Remember, girls, that 
¥01 an- Wellesley College." 

All weighty matters of college policy were re- 
ferred to the President. "Might we have lemonade 
and crackers at our Sophomore social?" Em- 
boldened l>v our success here, in the spring we plead 
lor permission to burn our "conic sections," only t<> 
return crestfallen to the class with (In- suggestion 
thai we lake our honorary member for a moonlight 
drive instead ! 

The doctor! Ah, her's was a more intimate 
despotism! Our health and all which concerned it 
lay in her hands. What share of sunshine, how lit- 
1 limbing of stairs did your well-being demand in 
nment of rooms? Who should have a 
Saturday-night bath hour, and who one at 6.30, 
A.M.. on Tuesday? Were you really sick? and 
should your meals be sent up? — toast or gruel? 

Or should you be firmly held to meals, exercise, 
class- work and chapel? Might you eat the pears 
your mother sent with your laundry, or should the 
college be declared in a state of siege and all such 
goods be held as contraband? The one box of 
candy which I received while in college I was al- 
lowed to give to my Bible teacher, who, with equal 
self-repression, doled it out, one piece daily, until 
it was gone. 

I well remember the despair with which we 
awaited a tardy Thanksgiving box which arrived 
at ten the last night of vacation. Friends and foes 
were gathered, and we faithfully discharged our 
obligations and disposed of the last crumb before 
we slept. 

Our daily walk, too, was under the doctor's super- 
vision. How often have I paced back and forth for 
another ten minutes to complete the required hour! 

In our "home life" we were responsible to our 
corridor teacher. How carefully she watched over 
you, never granting the coveted half hour after ten 
to finish your essay, until you were driven in your 
despair one night to blanket your transom! How 
loud was the noise of running water in the bath- 
room at 10.15, P.M.! How your boots squeaked 
when you tried to creep quietly by five minutes 
late to silent time because there had been egg cups 
to wash this morning! The rules required each girl 
to be "silent and alone," and in rooms for three, 
provision was made for the third girl in a recitation 
room. Also in study hours you were not supposed 
to communicate even with your roommate, except 
between bells— a very great aid to concentration. 

The head of the domestic work had a difficult 
task to train so much green and reluctant material. 
I am convinced that student government originated 
here, in the student leaders of "circles," who were 
accountable for certain units of work, and could 
withdraw you from the most fascinating social cir- 
cle to peel potatoes. 

On Mondays and over short vacations, strict 
discipline was needed to make sure that the proper 
substitutes were provided. 



In the old days we were leated alphabetical!} in 
church and chapel, where attendance wa kepi in 
each "section" bj one ol its members. A growing 
laxity permitted you i<> sil oul oi place on Sundaj 
evenings, provided thai you reported to your ei 
linn girl. Otherwise you would I"- called to the 
office i" explain youi abseni 

In the dining room your table teat her was respon- 
sible for your attendance and punctuality. \ I 
remember it, there were no penalties, bul you no 
more dared to go in late to a meal i han to cl 

Very slowl} did the idea dawn upon me thai there 
w.i i .1 Faculty back of .ill these verj plea an1 per 
sonal relations. In my Junior year came a rude 

At Hallowe'en there was a mild bul universal 
outbursl of lawlessness. Reminded by my room 
male of the pangs of remorse always following my 
misdeeds, I declined our wild boat-crew revel of 
ghost stories, enriched by apples saved from dessert. 
But, unfortunately, as I returned from placing the 
last alarm (dock designed to mark the passage of 
time for an '86 revel at the fifth-floor center, the 
last bell struck before I crossed the threshold with 
my remonstrating roommate. The many revelers 
roused the Faculty, and a most interesting game of 
hide-and-seek ensued. A week of interviews, re- 
monstrances and Faculty meetings culminated in a 
general invitation, given at morning prayers, to all 
who had in any way broken a college rule between 
the noons of October 31 and November 1 to be 
present at a Faculty meeting. Never shall I forget 
that mournful procession, that solemn assembly! 
The impossibility of making my very strict father 
receive my abject confession seriously at Christmas- 
time restored my sense of proportion and of humor. 
Nevertheless, we had learned a valuable lesson. 
that it is a serious matter to accept any obligation, 
however small, without living up to it. 1 believe 
that from that time ninety per cent, of us lived in 
accordance with the spirit of the rules. Hoes 
Student Government do better than that? 

I have picked out salient points in my masonry. 
The story does not run very true without the rest 
of the curve, for which 1 have no space allowed. 
Can you detect the strong points in the old founda- 

Nevertheless, long live Student Government! 
Mary C. Wiggin, '85. 


Government of the Students, by the Students 
and for the College. 

There is, of course, no need of proving to readers 
of this Magazine the superiority of Student Gov- 

ernment . " Si udi nl ' <" •• rnm< 

do all who have had tin- privilege of I 

first hand 1 he Si udi 

Wellesle) . When, on 

Li uliy and StU It 

-1 udeni - the < ontrol ol all 
not relating to public health 
inent , the use of < ollegi prop 1 
student -, there began the life 
government in the Well) 

iat ion, an a n which has 

during 1 he subsequi 

The Association was organiz d with 1 I - sident 
and a Vice-presidenl from thi 

and a Treasurer from the Junior 
elected by t he whole undergrad 
t ive Board made up of tl rs w ith .; 1 

sentative from each • ted by ht r 

the house officers for each coll 
of a house president and her proctors. Hut the 
government i- not at all .1 g iwrnmcnt 
it is essentially democratic, and it- - 
ble only when it is government by each individual 
student. Every girl, 1 Wellesli ; 

.1 member of the Association, and her loyaltj I 
necessarily involves her loyalty to the other. Rules 
are made and executed by the whole body of stu- 
dents, and to them, organized in their A>s tciation, 
has been intrusted the matter "l" registration I 
sence from college, the regulation of travel, per- 
missions for Sunday callers, the chaperone rules, the 
maintenance of quiet, and the general condu 
students on the campus and in the village. To this 
Association, also, the college looks for the forn 
and preservation of a high public sentiment towards 
all matters of public interest. 

Of all the special departments of the Association 
work, the one which has been the greatest problem, 
and perhaps, therefore, the one in which tin 
ciation has best shown its ability, is the -'-called 
Village Problem. For several years the enrolment 
has increased so much more rapidly than pn < - 
could be made for housing students on the campus. 
thai the whole Freshman Class has had to live in 
the village. Obviously the question of collegi g 
eminent for some four hundred new students, the 
youngest in the college, scattered over a wid« 
and living in small groups outside the college, has 
been a serious one. The Vice-president, who has 
charge of this department of the work, has iov - 
time been solving the problem with the help of her 
Senior assistants, who live in the village with her. 
and a well-organized village committee of upper- 
class students, who. while living on the camp- 
responsible for the right Student Government 
spirit in the village houses, each member of the 
committee concentrating her interest on one house 



and helping to make continuous that connection 
with ilic college which a Freshman tends to feel is 
broken when her classes are over, and which it is so 
import. ml thai she keep if she is to realize her 
membership in the college. That connection out- 
side of classes could not be made in the same degree 
by the Faculty, nor by girls working as individuals. 
There must be also the organized association of 
students who have themselves been, or are now in 
the village, each one of whom feels the need of an 
intimate, comprehending and co-operative spirit 
from all the other students of all the classes to 
complete the unity of the student body in its "loy- 
alty to the best interests of the college." 

The need and the success of the Association in the 
village are but typical of its position in other phases 
of college life, and its work for that good govern- 
ment which means, to quote from the original 
agreement authorizing the Association, "the exer- 
cising of the powers of government with most, 
careful regard both for liberty and order, and for 
the maintenance of the best conditions for scholarly 

But to illustrate the effectiveness of government 
by students for the college is to show only part of its 
use and value. Inseparable from that, and quite as 
important, is its value to the individual student. 
Not only is Wellesley better governed because of the 
unified, loyal spirit of the whole body of students, 
themselves responsible for the conduct of the col- 
lege and devoted to her interests in proportion as 
they feel her welfare in their keeping, but each in- 
dividual student is thereby given the opportunity 
for "growth in character and power." The training 
in that individual responsibility, which is the very 
foundation of a successful association, the chance 
to work side by side with every other member of the 
college for a common cause whose results may be 
seen each day, the growth in dignity, in ability to 
"pull together," to look at things in the large, and 
not alone from an individual view-point, — all these 
are daily adding to the efficiency and ability of the 
individual students in their life at Wellesley, and to 
their training for citizenship, both in the college and 
out. The Association is giving to the students that 
greatest privilege of life in a democratic communi- 
ty, the privilege of self-government, in company 
with other self-governing people, in accordance with 
the adjudged highest interests of the community. 

The success, the existence, even, of the Associa- 
tion would have been impossible except for the 
active co-operation of the Faculty of the college, 
and especially of Miss Pendleton, first as Dean 
and now as President. To them the gratitude of the 
Association is due, and for the future success of 
Student Government we bespeak their continued 
confidence and support. 

It is the organ through which undergraduates may 
express their loyalty to the college — to them it is 
the college, and for its strength and integrity they 
devote their first loyalty, their enthusiasm, their 
time, themselves. 

In their success graduates and students arc justly 
proud. But in their task all are needed whose in- 
terest in Wellesley is not dead — from undergradu- 
ates their self-controlled devotion — from Trustees, 
Faculty and alumna; their sympathy, and their 
steadfast belief, to the end, that all may be united 
in promoting that best government "of the students, 
by the students and for the college." 

Florence F. Besse, 1907. 


Last year, with the closing of the college term of 
1909-10, Miss Hazard made her final report to the 
Trustees of Wellesley College, as President of the 
institution. Such a report is necessarily of interest 
to two classes of readers, to those w r ho love Welles- 
ley, and to those who are interested in the cause of 
education, for it must contain special facts relative 
to the development of the college, and in addition, 
broader generalizations that touch the underlying 
philosophy on which women's special training rests. 
In this particular report, at the close of ten fruitful 
years, Miss Hazard was able to draw very definite 
conclusions concerning vital principles in Welles- 
ley's complex life. 

One alumna read the opening pages with peculiar 
interest. As it happened, they touched upon a new 
phase that had been a source of regret to her during 
the decade or more that had elapsed since her grad- 
uation. This was the abolishment of compulsory 
chapel that had taken place almost immediately 
after her leaving. As Miss Hazard was herself the 
first to suggest the change, the statement of her rea- 
son in her own words will be of interest. She says: 
"One of my first proposals at Wellesley, in the au- 
tumn of 1899, was to abolish compulsory attendance 
on morning prayers. The plan was approved only 
by a small majority of the Faculty, but the Trustees 
permitted me to make the experiment. With the 
beautiful new chapel building and every external 
aid to devotion, I could not bear to have the service 
perfunctory, with monitors to mark attendance." 
At this point in her reading the alumna paused and 
remembered that she had been a monitor once 
upon a time. Somewhere in her college memora- 
bilia book there were pasted a few of the pages of 
her attendance record, with the list of twenty girls 
whose names began with A or V or W, and whose 
assigned seats made up two rows in the rear of the 
old chapel. It was in her Freshman year, when the 
sense of responsibility and duty lay heaviest upon 


her, and it ivas a very serious small girl indeed thai 
sai in i he end iea1 and marked pr< ent, tardy, or 
absent, after the names oi her twentj classmati . 
giving them all the leeway possible, as genero ity 
dci i landed, Inii placing justice fii i in the lis I of vir- 
tues. Perhaps, too, there was jus! a bh of self- 
righteousness in her mental compari on between 
her exactness and the easy-going methods of a 
junior cousin, also a chapel monitor in a small mid- 
Western university. 

It was scarcely a surprise to her 1 hat only a feu of 
the Faculty had found the proposition to abolish 
compulsory chapel advisable. Ten years ago the 
majority of Wcllesley instructors wen- those who 
had been trained under the ancient regime of the 
70's. Many had known the founder, Mr. Durant 
himself, had caught from him the spirit of devotion 
in which the foundations of the place were laid, re- 
membered that its building had been a testimony to 
his Christian faith. They knew that to him any 
change in the morning devotional gathering would 
have been a deep regret, probably a great grief. 
Not forgetful that the. world moves, that 

"The old order changeth, giving place to new, 
And God fulfils Himself in many ways," 
they would fain have left untouched that corner- 
stone of Welleslcy inheritance, universal morning 
prayers. Yet they, too, must have felt with Miss 
Hazard that much of what is best in religious de- 
votion is lost when compulsion is necessary to its 

Further on, the retiring President outlines some 
of the results of her new plan: "Much of what I 
hoped for has been attained. It is a very real mo- 
ment of devotion when, with the first low note of 
the organ, a true call to prayer, every head is 
bowed, and the service begins with silent consecra- 
tion. The hymn, the psalm which follows, the 
Scripture lesson, the prayer, and the closing re- 
cessional, make a brief service to the value of which 
• I have had many testimonies." All that Miss 
Hazard says in this summing up of the advantages 
of the new system is true. And yet the alumna, 
reading with memory's keenest vision fixed upon 
the past, recalled that even under the old plan there 
had come the same inspiring influences of whole- 
some and real religious fervor. Even on the morn- 
ings when she herself had rushed to the fast-closing 
door, conscious of a room left in disorder, a too- 
hastily-made toilet, and an unprepared Latin 
translation, and had tucked herself breathless into 
her aisle seat, the quiet voice of the President from 
the platform announcing the opening hymn was the 
open sesame to twenty minutes of rest and grateful 
calm that had sent her back to the day's work 
stronger and surer of herself. Even those who 
openly rebelled against the exactions of compulsory 

1 hapel. and 1 hi 

< ompellcd to a< leno 

I raid: a tie i v. . re Troubled in hours 

not ill spent. 
A- i- 10 often tne :n the 

working out of new ' fl< 01 

l vend out-,, in the aboli 
chapel and Mi-- Hazard frankl;. 

them. To continue the quotation: "But 

the difficult) i- that the -indent- who 

3Ui h a sen i< e an- not there. I 

eighl in t In- morning." I - ised to be ei| t-t 

lit the alumna. y 'That i- early in winter, 

when one's room ha- to be I' ft in order for thi 
At the fir-t service of the year, and I 

the whole body of students is pi other 

times, 1 he at n-ndann is usu '• -- than five hun- 

dred. From a third to a half of the student 
come with some regularity; the other half, the half 
which most needs it, do not come excepl 1 r 
casions." Excellent advice it is virtue 

when it is lacking, and by the assumption to en- 
courage its growth and give it a ch . elop. 
Voluntary chapel attendance reaches the „irl who 
is natural!}, or by training, devotional in feeling, 
the girl who would find a place and a time for wor- 
ship if the college supplied none. Compulsory 
chapel brought to the center of spiritual influence 
the girl with little or no normal and spontaneous 
desire for devotion. Perhaps she came unwillingly. 
What of it? At least she did not go away quite 
empty-handed. As foolish to contend that it was 
of no real value as to say that the weekly 
concerts of classic music could be of no use to the 
girl untrained in the art. 

Pursuing the subject further. Miss Hazard pre- 
sents to the Trustees the tentative suggestioi 
college chaplain "who should be able I 
tention to the personal needs oi the students in 
times of stress, which must come to every expand- 
ing mind." A new idea truly, but not ill-ad 1 
perhaps, when one considers the tremendous 
growth of Welleslcy and the fact that it was founded 
for the Christian education of young women. In 
the early days, when Mr. Durant knew ' - e 
joy in his intimate relationship with the students, a 
voluntary chaplain in his activities, and when three 
or four hundred girls were not too many to find in 
the Faculty close friends and advisers, then the 
suggestion would have been superfluous. As it is. 
the alumna saw one distinct drawback. Many of 
her most delightful recollections centered about the 
Sundays when Wcllesley knew the inspiring min- 
istry oi the most distinguished preachers. To the 
services of these weekly visitors Miss Hazard pays 
grateful tribute in her report. There were specially 
treasured days when Phillips Brooks, neighbor and 



friend, filled the college chapel and left beautiful 
Lever to he forgotten. Just what those 
sermons meant to the many girls from small towns, 
otherwise denied the privilege of hearing these great 
teachers, they themselves will never know. 

But the end of Miss Hazard's conclusions has 
not yet come. She goes further. "After eleven 
- if experience, I am not so sure as I was that 
permitting voluntary attendance i~ wise. Is there 
not danger of giving untried young people too much 
liberty, of expecting them to decide for themselves 
questions of lifelong importance without the guid- 
ance of those who ought to guide? ' Here liberty of 
conscience is carried to an irreligious extreme." one 
of the early divines wrote of Rhode Island. Is the 
same indictment true, in part, of the modern college? 
The paternal theory of government has been wholly 
discarded in many colleges. Now the tide is turn- 
ing the other way. Absolute freedom of election is 
being curtailed, and it may be that in moral and re- 
ligious training too much freedom has been given. 
The honor system could be expanded, and by it at- 
tendance on chapel exercises controlled more than 
at present. The Sunday attendance is good, the 
chapel is usually full: but attendance at morning 
prayers seems to me very important. When I was 
so often the leader, I could not make a frequent ap- 
peal to students to come. It might well be that my 
ministrations were not helpful; four times a week it 
was my regular duty to offer morning prayer. The 
main object of such a service is naturally the con- 
secration of the day, an invocation of Divine help 
in all that it may contain. But there is no great 
good without lesser benefits, and the sense of 
solidarity, of community life, of college loyalty 
which is fostered by such a service, is something 
which no college can afford to lose." 

Paternalism! A phrase often sounded in the 
modern forum. A phrase with which American 
ideals seem to be at variance. A phrase we have 
almost discarded in home discipline as a national 
government. What of the disappearance of morn- 
ing prayers in the family? They were seldom vol- 
untary. There were often grumblings at this ex- 
action on the part of devout fathers and mothers. 
And yet. pretty far back in the subconsciousness of 
many, there still lives the memory of those brief 
minutes of a united assembly, a reverent group, the 
big family Bible, the sounding chapter, the earnest 
prayer, and the hushed beginning of the day. Where 
one small grumbler found in the requirement the 
beginning of revolt, a score added the beauty of 
p to their concept of life. 

Glad indeed was the alumna that the out- 
going President had added the sentence regarding 
the lesser benefits to the earnest plea for change. 
These had always seemed to her of vital importance. 

In addition to her idea that prayer, no matter in 
what form, was the normal beginning of a day. she 
had always believed in the impression of unity, of 
solidarity, engendered by the meeting of the entire 
body of students. How could Wellesley ever again 
know that feeling of oneness, she wondered, now 
that no single hour of the day saw the college as- 
sembled as a whole? Again she slipped into her re- 
tired Freshman seat under the gallery. Upon the 
platform sat the choir and the President. To the 
right of the organ were the Faculty, to the left the 
special students. In the front seats were the 
Seniors, the objects of her honest awe and ad- 
miration. Behind them the Juniors, only slightly 
less impressive. Across the chapel were the Sopho- 
mores, creatures strange and not too friendly. All 
about her the girls she was to know for four happy 
years as companions and sisters in pleasure and 
pain. This was the college world. This was the 
Wellesley of which she had dreamed when an am- 
bitious father had decreed that she was to be one of 
the educated women of her day, so far as he could 
make it possible. 

There was a thrill of loyalty and a joy of being a 
part of so marvelous a whole that came daily in the 
singing of the hymns, the full-thrcated volume of 
sound hardly missing the sustaining notes of bass 
or tenor. Even to-day. with Wellesley's wonderful 
new organ and the splendid choir, the alumna finds 
no more satisfying singing. There was the eager in- 
terest in the daily announcements. Together the big 
Wellesley family heard of changes and of the events 
of the little cosmos in which they lived. It needed no 
eager searching of bulletin boards to spread the 
daily news. Together they listened to gentle ad- 
monition, to mild reproof, or to stern rebuke. And 
then to the orthodox little Freshman came the su- 
preme moment, the close, when, to the organ, the 
students filed out in the order of seniority of classes. 
Then she saw herself in imagination a Senior, then 
she felt most keenly her responsibility to do her 
college credit, then she stirred to the ambition to 
be worthy of those whose duty was "not to be 
ministered unto, but to minister." It was a very 
real, a very deep and earnest ambition. Y\ ho shall 
say how many caught fire at that same moment.-' 

And then Miss Hazard concludes with a plea that 
the college shall keep alive the religious spirit. " W e 
are constantly told," she writes, "that the religious 
spirit of the country is dying out; unless the col- 
leges can foster and increase it, their work is profit- 
less. A trained mind without a reverent spirit is a 
dangerous product. The whole question of religous 
teaching in schools is a pressing one. The colleges 
must lead in showing the solution." 
— An Alumna in the New York Evening Post. 



As far bacl a nv own undergraduate days the 
soi in y que ition was discu sed and discu ed. It 
was a favorite 3ubjecl for Junior forensics bi 
the pros and cons wen- uppermost in our minds. 
As the years passed the opinion strengthened thai 
the societies a1 Wellesley wen- not in harmony with 
I lie fun si spirit of the college. The < ollege had kepi 
pace with the world outside, and the awakened 
social conscience of the world was echoed in the 
college by a widespread feeling of unrest with the 
society situation. 

In 1909 the societies held a prominenl position 
in the college life. Their members were largely of 
two kinds, the natural leaders and the girls who, I,;, 
their social training, and by their larger oppor- 
tunities, were the inosi obviously attractive at the 
outset of their college career. The membership was 
more homogeneous than in the older days, and the 
society bond was consequently closer. The girls 
emphasized the societies, and their estimate of the 
importance of the societies was accepted by the 
rest of the college, because in the societi :s were the 
leaders of opinion. But the very prominence of the 
societies brought their personnel under scrutiny. 
The girls outside, comparing themselves with many 
of the members, felt that they were equally elij 
not only in intellectual ability, but in their power 
for fellowship. They resented the vantage ground 
given by society membership to a girl who had re- 
ceived it .for no obvious reason. 

There was little objection to societies in them- 
selves. It was agreed that the societies could add 
much to the grace and charm of the social side of 
the college. The pleasure and profit found in the 
study of an interesting subject by a small unit, and 
in getting together socially under attractive circum- 
stances, were generally admitted. The problem was 
to get such opportunities for as many girls as possi- 
ble, and to convince the rest either that due exertion 
would win the opportunities, or that it was reason- 
able that they should go without them. 

At the instance of the societies, in February, 1910, 
a congress of society and non-society undergraduates, 
graduates and Faculty, was called to consider a so- 
lution. It was necessary for the congress to re- 
member certain truisms. A group of persons, to be 
a social success, must be small and comparatively 
congenial. Societies that are open to all are used 
by few. Department clubs do not flourish social l\ . 
Since girls will always form social groups, it is better 
to organize and regulate rather than to destroy. 

After many meetings, the congress advised that 
the societies be retained, and that in the future they 
should each be composed of Juniors and Seniors, 
according to the following plan: All girls should be 


in additioi 
exi ellenl h 
lid . 'I he standard 
eat h • 

1 ommi 
the Dean. 

the d 

preferem es in the or 

of the central 1 
girl and eai 
The hope for the plan laj in I 
sacrificed main min 1 
two essential points. To the indivi 


tion, or non-membership with.. 

tin- strong 

with members whom it 

in return, and so enabled it : 
homogeneousness and indivi luality. 
societj ii gavi equal numbers with the larg 

aid although tl 
would not be among them, less well-k 
often build up a society quiti ;• . — a 

well-known fact, which accounts for th< 
popularity of the various - 

The plan of the c< trial 

lor three years. The first year has 
further steps have been taken — for 
society is to hold its open me I g 
other year. Some mistakes have been ma !< There 
are still unhapp) girls. There are misfits in I 
cieties. There always wire. But there 
discontent and much real satisfaction. 
credit is due to the girls for the spirit with which 
they have carried out the plan. M 
succeed ami develop if. in their tentative tr> i; •._ 
they should receive such hearty sup 

M \k\ \V. Pi v - • 


A year has gone by since the new sys 
ciety organization in Wellesley began, and V 

leyans, past and present, are looking for results 
radical a change cannot be judged with anj 
ness after so short a trial, but some g 
solvations may be made, remember g 
the present conditions are those of a ti 

The new plan went into effect in the autumn ol 
to to. After a single year the situation is too much 
in a process of evolution to show definite results. 



It is hardly fair to ask whether the plan has failed 
or succeeded, or to say what the final outcome will 
be. Some very general observations, however, can 
be made. It is obvious that, whereas, under the old 
system, society membership was too often a matter 
of chance, now every girl in the Senior and Junior 
classes has the opportunity to become a member, 
since her eligibility depends upon her own efforts. 
As a result, girls from all the varied circles of college 
life have been brought together; girls with widely 
different interests and points of view meet on com- 
mon ground. It would seem, then, that in these 
smaller groups a most favorable situation had been 
created for the growth of real democratic spirit — of 
sympathy and understanding between people of 
opposite temperaments and interests. Whether or 
not human nature, in the mass, will respond, as 
theorists hope, is still a matter of conjecture. At 
present the results still depend upon the individual 
disposition and training, and no general conclusion 
can be arrived at. 

A less vital result of the new system has been the 
increase in the importance and the publicity of 
societies. In the old days they were kept more or 
less in the background, and their activities were of 
minor importance. So much discussion of society 
affairs has somewhat stripped them of the glamor 
they once had. It is no longer a breach of etiquette 
to mention them, and Tupelo has lost something of 
its air of mystery. While it is a welcome thing to 
see them assuming a natural and unaffected po- 
sition, it is exceedingly' undesirable that an undue 
importance be thrust upon them. If they were less 
discussed and were allowed to go about their work 
more simply, they would soon find their proper 
level in the college life. 

One of the particular arguments against societies 
on the old basis was that those who failed to be in- 
vited were hurt and embittered. Hurt feelings 
must have diminished somewhat in extent under 
the new system, but disappointment and even bit- 
terness still exist. The fact that eligibility depends, 
not upon any absolute, but upon a changing stand- 
ard, adjusted to the number of vacancies to be 
rilled, means that some girls, who have not been 
made eligible, feel that they deserve eligibility more 
than others who have. Occasionally, mistakes are 
made; very often the reasons are good, but not ap- 
parent; more often it is purely the fault of the sys- 
tem itself. Perhaps more feeling is aroused by the 
interpretation and application of the "public- 
spirited service" qualification than by any other 
one point. In the first place, it is all too easy for 
the term, "public-spirited," to be too loosely in- 
terpreted. One finds a tendency in the college-at- 
large to consider any office, however perfunctory, 
or membership on any committee, however trivial, 

as public-spirited service. Too often, the mere title 
is considered, rather than the actual work it re- 
quires. The evils resulting are insidious and de- 
plorable. It is difficult for the list of recommenda- 
tions to be properly limited. In the matter of ap- 
pointments, it is, and will be difficult not to give a 
position to the girl who needs it to become eligible, 
rather than to the girl who is already eligible, or who 
will be on some other count. It is not implied that 
any such laxness has occurred, it is merely a ten- 
dency of the college attitude, which many have 
noticed, and which, if not checked by strong pub- 
lic opinion, will lead to such undesirable conditions. 
Most serious of all is the tendency of this attitude 
to undermine college politics. Fortunately, the 
actual voting has not been affected, but there seems 
to be real danger of electioneering for girls who need 
offices in order to become eligible. Undoubtedly, 
service has been given a commercial value, but that 
it should be allowed to become commercialized or to 
fall from its high and ideal standards would be de- 
moralizing, and would offset practically every good 
which the new system might create. 

That the plan has worked as smoothly as it has, 
is due in no small measure to the unstinted interest 
and effort of the committees in charge. Their task 
is enormous and most difficult, a fact which all 
recognize and appreciate. Their devoted service 
has, indeed, prevented many difficulties and has 
given the system a fair chance to prove its worth. 
All who work for the plan, whether they believe in 
its efficacy, or work for it from a sense of duty and 
justice, know that they are toiling for something 
beyond an arbitrary system, beyond the college 
world. The societies are trying, in miniature, an 
experiment along lines upon which the whole mod- 
ern world is working. It is this wider significance, 
this relation to more universal issues, which makes 
the task so vital in interest, so well worth thought 
and effort; which makes us, as well, more patient in 
awaiting results and more slow to judge. 

Christine Myrick, 191 1. 


Perhaps some of us hardly realize that the Col- 
lege Settlements Association has an Alumnae as well 
as an Undergraduate Chapter! We exist, however, 
and we care so much for the work we are helping to 
support that we are eager to draw every alumna 
within our ranks. We like to think that the Welles- 
ley spirit is the spirit of democracy, and certainly 
there is no more beautiful way of proving this than 
by throwing ourselves into movements which are 
making toward the realization of this great dream. 

Surely the Settlement is an expression of the 
democratic spirit. Seeking, as it does, to draw to- 


gether people ol widel) divergent wealth and op- 
portunity, thai through knowledge ma; com 
pathy, and through sympathy a sharing ol life's 
privileges, ii is a protest against the cruellj rigid 
stratification oi a society in which the sense of hu- 
man oneness seem 3 so dormant. Seeking, as it does, 
to develop a more truly co-operative spirit in it 
neighborhood, it is helping to i reate 1" tter < itizens 

— citizens who will have a wider vision of their n 

lation in the social whole, and who will therefon 

be more willing to accept individual responsibility 
for the public weal. Seeking ultimately, as it does, 

through investigation and through alliance with 

general movements, for social reform, to help in 
changing the unjust condil ions behind I he prevalent 
disease and ignorance, the Settlement is standing 
in line with forces working toward.-- a juster eco 
nomic system. 

The methods of work differ with the differing 
needs of individuals and of neighborhoods. Some- 
times the spirit of fellowship and co-operation may 
be best expressed through a basket-ball club » some- 
times through a summer outing, sometimes through 
a medical dispensary, sometimes through a class in 
literature, and sometimes through a dancing social. 
Nor should any of this work be looked upon as 
"charity" bestowed on one group of people by an- 
other, but simply as an effort to achieve justice, 
since there can be no sort of real social advance 
unless the nobler fruits of civilization become the 
heritage of the many and not of the few alone. 

The very name of the College Settlements Asso- 
ciation signifies its peculiar appeal to us as college 
women. Representing fourteen women's colleges, 
the Association stands as a link between the college 
woman and the surging industrial life of our great 
cities. In four of these cities, New York, Boston, 
Philadelphia and — very recently — in Baltimore, the 
Association has planted her children, the settle- 
ments, and splendidly they are growing, and eager- 
ly calling for more resources with which to meet 
their pressing opportunities for usefulness. The 
tale of their individual doings must be reserved for 
later articles, but suffice it to say that they have 
proved their value. Presidents and neighborhood 
dwellers alike testify — though in different ways — to 
a broader vision, an enriched life. With the modern 
demand for expert service, our Settlements have 
grown from, perhaps, rather sentimental expressions 
of brotherhood into more scientifically-regulated 
channels for the outpouring of the social spirit, but 
the sense of a sympathetic sharing in the common 
life has not been lost, and must be guarded as their 
most precious inheritance from the pioneer days. 

As Wellesley alumnae, and not only as college 
women, we have a special interest in this work, since 
our Alumnae Association contributes annually to 

on« of the joint fellowshi -lining 

d l<;. the ' oIL p 
Mm- enabling <■ 

repri four thou- 

-and strong now, but onl 
thirt;. ,\r< enrolled a- lie ml.. - 
'I' in- ni- Association, and nor over four bundi 

ii- paid our die 

not discouraged, for our g; \,m 

for the jake of \\. II. -I. ;. and for I 
Settlements, '.'■>• want our growth t 

we raised - I we not i:. 

this sura bj $500.00 during 1911-12' 

I he fee for life membersh ip is $1 

Sustaining membership due- ., r .- fron fcj 
$25.00 per year. 

Regular membership d 

Partial membership flues are fron; - 
per year. 

The chapter tax for printing. 
j ear. 

If appealed to by class elector, kindly send 
through her; if not. to the chapter treasurer, Mi- 
Josephine Thayer, 11 Wesl 5ti Milford, " 

\\ ill not each alumna who has never joined or who 
has dropped out, become a member this year, and 
thus help Wellesley to plaj a -till more vital part in 
the "social awakening?" 

The most convincing proof of the value of any 
work is the knowledge which comes through per- 
sonal co-operation. So, if possible, spend some 
time — a year, a month, or even two h<>urs a week — 
at 95 Rivington Street. New Y.>rk. or 93 Tyler 
Strict, Boston, or 433 Christian Street. Philadel- 
phia, or 1504 East Fort Avenue, Baltimore. Terms 
for residence may be obtained by writing to the 
Settlements. Any service rendered will be most 
welcome. Eleanor P. MONROE, 1014. 

Alumna? Elector. 


In every girl there is, probably, at some time in 
her formative years, a period when she feels the 
altruistic principle stirring within her. long before 
she has ever heard the term, and she longs 
nurse or a missionary or a charity worker, or in 
some way to be of service in ministering to others. 

Then her school life and college life becom 
absorbing that she may never yield to the impulse, 
and it may never again be so strong. On the other 
hand, if she chances to come under the inspir 
ol a friend or a speaker who is alive with enthusi- 
asm for humanity, the spark may be kindled and a 
tire lighted that will never burn out. Such a kind- 
ling of enthusiasm it may be interesting to trace in a 
special case, and if 1 may be pardoned a fev 
sonalities, I will tell my own experience: 



In my childhood .1 wise Sunday-school teacher, 
who directed our energies outside Sunday-school in 
some degree, through .1 missionarj sewing-circle, 
assisted us in raising monej for the work of the 
Gulicks in Spain, the letter which we sent them 
wiih our gifl arriving while Mrs. Gulick was en- 
tertaining Dr. S. F. Smith (America Smith), and 
his wife, who wereona tour around the world. Mrs. 
Smith was .1 neighbor of ours in Newton Center, 
and was so pleased with our interest that she sought 
permission to answer the letter for Mrs. Gulick. 
So .1 personal element entered into our interest, and 
we continued, for several years, to send money for 
the mission in Spain; and I myself fully expected 
then to be a missionary. 

But about that time a cousin of mine, who was 
interested in the North Bennett-street Industrial 
School, took me, with my sister, one lovely spring 
day, to visit some of her aged poor in the West End; 
and the gratitude shown by them for the apple- 
blossoms and other spring flowers we carried them 
awakened a new line of thought, and I began to 
wonder a little if there might not be true missionary 
work to do right in our own Boston. 

And my wise, big-hearted mother often sent me 
on errands of mercy in our own town, and thus 
again the altruistic principle was fostered. 

But my first idea of going to live as a neighbor 
to those of less opportunity than ourselves came in 
our Freshman ethics course under Miss Andrews, 
who told us of a family of wealth who had given up 
their house up town (perhaps in New York), to 
live among the poor and be their very neighbors. 
That startled us and prepared us for the mass 
meeting, where Miss Scudder and Miss Freil, (Mrs. 
Shale;), and others told us of Arnold Toynbee and 
the workers like him in England, and of how they 
themselves proposed to do something like it here. 
Then and there the Wellesley Chapter of the Col- 
lege Settlement was formed, and I became a most 
enthusiastic member. 

After I left college, and other things distracted 

my attention, I allowed my membership to lapse; 

Nut t he energy of Caroline Williamson (Mrs. Mont- 

■ I, got hold of me and drew me into work as 

treasurer of the Wellesley Alumnae Chapter. 

Two summer visits to the New York Settlement 
summer home cemented my connection with set- 
tlement work, and since then my settlement inter- 
ests have always been uppermost. 

\nil the more intimately one knows Denison 
House, the more one feels its inspiration. It is 
indeed worth while to be a part of a growing or- 
ganization that is expanding and deepening at the 
same time. 

Denison House started with one house in 1889, 
and now has five, besides the gymnasium. And here 

are carried on clubs and classes for those of every 
age, including two clubs for foreign-born women, 
one for Syrians and one for Italians. We have a 
summer camp for boys at Lake Wentworth, N. H., 
and one for girls at Winthrop, under the care of 
Mrs. Mary O'Sullivan, and for six weeks in summer 
we have a vacation school for boys and girls on 
Tyler street. 

Residents collect in the neighborhood for the 
stamp savings, our nurse has classes in personal 
hygiene and home nursing, and some of the stu- 
dents' clubs prepare and eat their supper on club 
nights in the cooking-school room. And in all these 
lines there is ample room for the help of a resident 
who has no special bent, but is there to learn and 
to be helpful. 

This year every room was engaged in advance, so 
that those who expect to be at Denison House an- 
other winter would do well to plan early. 

Every one of us, after college days, whether in her 
own home or in her father's, in town or in country, 
must meet the problems of social betterment, and 
no place affords such wonderful training as a set- 
tlement, for it must touch every other problem of 
human relationship; and out of the needs of the 
neighbors will grow many an institution far more 
conspicuous than the settlement itself. And so a 
settlement is a foster-mother of its neighbors and 
of institutions for true betterment in more special- 
ized lines as well. 

For instance, Denison House started a reading- 
room and lending library, and when the need was 
great enough the Boston Public Library opened a 
branch near-by, which has for years been directed 
by one of our Wellesley girls, Cora Stuart, a most 
efficient settlement worker — that is, working in the 
settlement spirit. 

When Dr. Richard Cabot initiated his hospital 
social service work at the Massachusetts General 
Hospital, he borrowed our Denison House nurse, 
again a Wellesley girl, Garnet Isabel Pelton, to be- 
gin that work with him. Since then he has carried 
off another of our Settlement workers, Miss Edith 
Burleigh, to join his staff. 

Out of the w r ork with the neighbors which Miss 
Pelton began has grown up a dispensary for the 
neighborhood, and a station for dispensing modi- 
fied milk — now a part of the work of the Milk and 
Baby Hygiene Association — with its clinics held 
at Denison House. 

The gymnasium, with baths which we started, is 
now run by the city, which pays rent to Denison 
House. And soon the city will erect a Municipal 
Building which will house both the library and the 

It is difficult to test a settlement to see what it 
does. One may count the number of people whom 


ii meets each week in i lub and i la . or one maj 
count i he number ol e* ur ion to t he i ounl rj 
which ii plans for the ummer, bul none oi th< i 
lists can possibly indicate the quality of the quiet, 
every-day work which Denison House i doing. Ii 
touches the lives of its neighbors, In h, Italians 
or Syrians, through all the members ol the familj 
little children, half-grown boys and girl . young 
men and young women, fathers and mother 
instructing, comforting and presenting profitable 
entertainment for them, as a true friend can. 

And yci there is another side to all this. I it 
thing more than palliative, this thai we arc doing? 
Is i here any permanent good coming oul of it all? 
We firmly believe I hat in every child made st r< 
every young person made more intelligent and sym- 
pathetic, every mother made more capable, we are 
getting nearer to the solution of the problem of pov- 
erty which underlies all other social problems. 

And so we believe that a social regeneration may 
come without a revolution, if we will only patient 1\ 
tend the grain of mustard seed. 

Mabel Gair Curtis, '90. 


Miss Carol Dresser, 
Miss Helen Drake, 
Miss Cora Stewart, 
Miss M. K. Conyngton, 
Miss Susan Huntington, 
Miss Florence Converse, 
Miss Lavinia Smith, 
Miss Ellen J. Wall, 
Miss Ella W. Bray, 
Miss Antoinette Bigelow, 
Miss Margaret Waterman, 
Miss Harriet H. Brown, 
Miss Martha R. Spalding, 
Miss Katherine Morse, 
Miss Julia M. Burgess, 
Miss Louise E. Balard, 
Miss Grace Hillyer, 
Miss Mae Rice, 
Miss Elizabeth Manwaring, 
Miss L. C. Emerson, 
Miss Garnet I. Pelton, 
Miss A. Walmsley, 
Miss Mary A. Robinson, 
Miss Florence M. Painter, 
A'liss Marion D. Savage, 
Miss Geraldine Gordon. 


"America the Beautiful, and Other Po- 
ems," by Katharine Lee Bates. Thomas Y. Crowell 
Company, 191 1. Price, $1.25. 

( 'oil. 

failure to produc c origii 
bring us n holarship 
com mu nil j 

of 11- ful. practii al foi 

a< hi ivemeni ? Voui 

ideal expri -- d in *h tp< - ol I 

tin main, 1 he reproa 

relative values would emph 

pre< iousn *sol just this which i 

ii does < ome to pa 

weaves for 1 he -pirii of ihe highesl th 

pun- beauty, and has, in the end, a I 

to offer to her Alma A 

turn while other loyal da . re the 

Great Mother their large and noble . 

at last stepped softly forward and laid in th' 

maternal hand a pri 

quiet, unpretentious book in which all VY 
rejoices to-day. 

Professor Bates has rendered many valuable 
services to the college, and all so thoroughly in the 
spirit of not letting the left hand know what the 
hand doeth, that probably the half of them 
will never be told. Bui it is 1 -:on up the 

more evident: the exceptionally able, original and 
scholarly class-room work of man;. 
Hani books of travel, literary criticism, and trans- 
lation, which have added distinction to her per- 
formance of professional duty; the unobtrusive 
vital share in the development of academic and 
alumna' policies: the personal inspiration, thi 
helpfulness lavished upon individuals beyond com- 
puting, both young and old; the lively sympathy 
with the undergraduates .in(\ comprehensi 
their problems, and the multiplicity <>f wa; - 
which this sympathy and comprehension hav< 
shown. This very MAGAZINE tract - 
germ planted by her and sunned in In 
care throughout the earlier stages of its growth. 
Yet all these services, great and small, reach their 
culmination in the gift to Welleslej a ad I ■ America 
of this modest book, beginning with a national 
am hem which is already far on its waj to immor- 
tality, and revealing, as no other work oi the au- 
thor's has done, her deepest convictions on Ii: 
art. For they are uttered here in that lang 
poetry which is her most characteristic and onlj 
quate means of expression. Her prose writings have 
familiarized us with her literary talent: but in this 
book we are face to face with genius. 

Much oi Miss Bates' verse is already known and 
loved by those who will read this review. Some oi 
the best of it has been written by our un 
laureate for college occasions. Peculiarlj dear to 
Wellesley hearts are such poems as the memorable 



hymn, "At the Laying of the Corner-stone" of the 
Library, and the rosary of profound and tender 
elegies for Wellesley's dead. Several of the 
other poems, notable among the nature-lyrics, 
either of Wellesley subjects, or obviously 
found their inspiration here. A careful hut lim- 
ited select ion from Miss Bates' finest verse appeared, 
together with Miss Sherwood's beautiful play, .Miss 
Jewett's haunting lyrics', and other poems highly 
creditable to the college, in "Persephone," the vol- 
ume brought out by the Department of English 
Liti rat ure for the benefit of the Library Fund in 
1905. But this book was issued semi-privately, and 
its circulation was naturally limited. A large num- 
ber of Miss Bates' poems, however, have appeared 
in leading periodicals, and have become familiar 
in that way to an increasingly wide circle of read- 
ers. But the volume now before us is, to quote a 
recent review, "her first comprehensive collection, 
and the first to reveal to the public the wealth and 
range of her poetic power." 

The opening poem, "America the Beautiful," 
from which the book takes its name, seems, in a 
special sense, college property, as its unique value 
was so early recognized here, and it has been sung 
on so many noteworthy college occasions, cul- 
minating in the recent Inauguration. Moreover, of 
the nearly fifty settings composed for it since its 
appearance in substantially its present form seven 
years ago, two of the best-known are those by our 
own Professor Hamilton, and by the Rev. W. W. 
Sleeper of the Wellesley Congregational Church. 
But this great national hymn has now been widely 
accepted in different parts of the country, and 
Wellesley is only too thankful to merge her smaller 
claim in the general ownership. With joyful pride 
we see our anthem taking more and more fully its 
rightful place, sung by great popular assemblies, 
eagerly sought for the new hymn-books, reprinted 
in countless periodicals, the lure of composers and 
the joy of thinking patriots, embodying, as it does, 
a passionate yet clear-sighted love of country in a 
poetic form of concentrated and virile power, yet 
so simply lyrical that it fairly sings itself. We do 
not ask that it should displace any of the patriotic 
songs already consecrated by the people's affection, 
though Thomas Bailey Aldrich, whose artistic 
taste was so exquisite and so difficult to please, 
wrote of it that it "ought to supplant the common- 
pi u e, lifeless lines which we have accepted as our 
national am hem." But we believe that of all our 
national hymns it is far and away the best. (An 
accurate account of its history may be found in the 
current number of the Chautauquan Magazine.) 

It would be a mistake, however, to rank "Amer- 
ica the Beautiful" as its author's highest achieve- 
ment in verse. Noble as that is, we find in her book 

a number of poems which equal or surpass it in 
rarity of thought and distinction of imaginative 
expression, while there are several which share with 
it that genuine singing quality so hard to find in our 
so-called lyric verse. The analysis of the book's 
contents which appeared in the Boston Transcript 
of October 27, 191 1, so nearly expresses our views 
on the subject that we reproduce it, with some 
additions and minor changes, in what follows: 

The volume is divided into nine sections. The 
subjects of the first eight are indicated respectively 
by the titles of their initial poems: "America the 
Beautiful," "Home," "The Ideal," "What is the 
Spirit?" "The Praise of Nature," "Love Planted a 
Rose," "Azrael," and "The Wander- Year." 
The ninth section consists of translations from the 
Spanish, and renders with masterly grace and 
piquancy a large number of coplas and other 
specimens of Peninsular folk-song. The prevailing 
tone of the book is a lofty earnestness, held in fine 
restraint by the large, underlying humor which is 
so characteristic of all Miss Bates' work. Occa- 
sionally this gleams on the surface, as in the be- 
witching lines to "Brother Canary:" 
"Little Laughter of God, 
Twinkling from rod to rod, 
Star embodied in fluff." 
The more subtle and mystical poems, like "The 
Poet" and "Were Love but True" are balanced by 
charming genre pictures of the simplest human ap- 
peal, such as we find in the Falmouth pieces, in 
"Sailing-Day at Clovelly" and in "The Golden 
Wedding." Most of the poems are short; though 
we find admirably sustained work in the lyrical bal- 
lad entitled "Indian Bearers," with its strong, prim- 
itive imagery and compelling pathos, in the stirring 
Norse ballad of "The Sea- Path," in the three state- 
ly odes, and in two or three other instances. But 
the general brevity of the lyrics, doubtless largely 
due to the exactions of academic life, stands for a 
striking concentration of power. 

"A single line may live as long, God please, 

As all of Homer or Euripides;" 
and the volume abounds in single lines, in quatrains, 
and other examples of strict compression, which are 
memorable for vigor of thought and haunting fe- 
licity of phrase. Such is the quatrain on "The 
Appian Way:" 
"What is the past? Didst find it where we went, 

Far out on that enmarbled Scriptured Way? 
We found the unappeasable lament, 

Bewildered cry of spirit over clay." 
The thirty-eight sonnets distributed through the 
book are further illustrations of the same compact- 
ing tendency, combined with elevation of motive 
and distinction of form. 


The considerable group ol lyrii nrhich, together 
with "America the Beautiful," make up the fir • 
section "I the book, are charged with a fervid yel 
discriminating patriotism. A wider world-feeling 
is shown in poignant utteranci on England's deal 
inga wiili South Africa and our own with the 
Philippines. One notes especially the nobl< onneta 
entitled "America to England," and tin- grandi i 
reverberanl music oi thi ode on ' ia ira, with its 
"Splendid thrones un visited of Time," 

and ils 

"Multitudinous thunders evermore." 
In this section, as elsewhere, we find 3u< h inequal- 
ities of power as air to b expected in a collection 
covering the work of so main- years. Thus the 
young exuberance of " Land of I lope" differs w idely 
from the controlled and solemn passion of "To 
My Country." Yet there is thrill and vision in 
such early lines as 

"Still through error and shame and censure 
She urges onward with straining breast, 
For her face is set to the great adventure, 
Her feet are vowed to the utmost quest." 

The poems of home center about Cape Cod, and 
in particular the town of Falmouth, the 

"Fair sea-village, wrapt in its pearly haze," 
which was Miss Bates' birthplace. The first of 
these, written for the Old Home Festival at Fal- 
mouth, is a very fire-opal among the oftentimes du- 
bious treasures of occasional verse. It reveals the 
poet's profound sense of those primitive values 
which are also eternal, and has that large tenderness 
of imagination which a discerning critic has pointed 
out as her peculiar characteristic. The Transcript 
said of it at the time of its delivery: "If the Old 
Home Festival at Falmouth had accomplished 
nothing more, and been celebrated by nothing more 
than the production of the poem by Katharine lie 
Bates, it would have been abundant ly worth 
while." The charm of these lovely lines follows us 
as we turn the pages to episodes of Cape Cod his- 
tory in the later poems of the group. "The Fal- 
mouth Church" hymns in noble phrase the soul 
of the new theology. 

It is proof of Miss Bates' versatility thai each of 
her subjects in turn appears to be peculiarly her 
own. But her third section would seem to give us 
her rarest and most intimate verse. It opens with 
that exalted lyric, "The Ideal," which has been a 
"Sursum corda" to many earnest souls since ds 
publication in the Century Magazine some fifteen 
or twenty years ago. This is followed by the pic- 
turesquely symbolic "Cape of Good Hope," by the 
subtle and trenchant "Opportunity," and by other 
poems of almost equal quality. All of them express 
the aspiration for the ideal; and several of them. 

-inr . th<ir am ; 
of p . 

individual pot 
Allied to id. 

ai and philosophy whit h imi 
it . I he* r<\\ I . imul from I 
■ I the SOUl, a- in " V. 

oni< ome in < heerful, pra 

r Lady 's 1 

id ihir-t 
pervade thes< lyrics, whose deeply human tori' 
forth a respoiu from the 

Anion- ih.- mosl typii i! of tl anzas 

I o I ruth," " I he K' in' ■ 
and "Thanksgiving." Thi- division includes three 

of Christmas verse, all of them 
in quality and workman-hip. "On Chri 
show- i In- possibiliti - oi dignity and distinction in 
the graceful rondeau form. "Th f the 

East" i- a series of triolet-., whose captivating lilt 
Professor Hamilton ha- sel to appropriate music. 
But "The Star of Bethlehem," with it- >tately 
choriambic measure, had- us through gr 
of space and thought, and must inted, with 

"What I> the Spirit^' "The Ideal," - 
Flame," and the "Threnody," a- the acme "f the 
author's imaginative achievement. 

The descriptions of nature ai 
trawl, in the fifth and eighth ire clearly 

the result of trained observation, as well as keen 
artistic perception. Th< • peculiar vitality 

and appeal from the fact that with their melodious 
rhythms is continually inwoven th anisic 

of humanity." Some of Mi-- I 
cadences are found in her nature-; 
which, like her national hymn, fairly sin.; them- 
selves in the brain. Such are "A S ng I V. . 
"The Sweet o' the Year," and the exquisi 
sy-Heart," which won the prize of L 
Madrigal Club two or three years since, ai 
haps, the most irresistibly tuneful ^i them all. The 
poems ^\ foreign trawl take us through Switzerland 
and Italy to Egypt and the Holy Land, th 
England and the sea: a\u\ preserve for us the frag 
essence of many journeys. Beginning with .. - 
of rarely-conceived And executed quatrains entitled 
"The Wander- Year," they include lyrics which 
would challenge attention anywhere, such as 
Glacier o\ Bossons" and "Tintern." and - 
ticularly tine sonnets, as those on "Abu Simbel," 
on "Furness Abbey." and "Matins 
"To the Nile." 

"Mother of Egypt, sister of old Till 

must rank with the strongest verse of its kind. 
Throughout its stately length one hears the iranif- 



morial flow of the historic river, and sees the 
changing panorama of the centuries it has outlived. 
And in the power and fitness of this ode's imagina- 
tive presentment, one realizes afresh the author's 
astonishing resources of diction, the extraordinary 
variety and distinction of the vocabulary she has 
made her own. In it the ripened scholarship of 
many arduous years joins hands with unique 
natural gift; while an occasional Elizabethan word 
or construction reveals the Shakespearian enthu- 
siast. The last stanza of "Sea-Birds" is a striking 
epitome of human life: 

"And shall the sea-bird quarrel with the sea? 
To dip the wing in joy and then to be 
Where broken foam, lost sunrise, fallen star 
Hold court together, is it cause for -war?" 

The sixth section deals with love in its larger 
sense. Here we find passion purified and trans- 
figured, clothed with light and music, as in "Heart 
of Hearts" and "The Victory." Here, too, is 
great-hearted friendship, as in the serene and beau- 
tiful "Mountain-Soul." Here is deep maternal 
tenderness, musing over "Baby," 

"The blossom a woman is fain to wear 
Over the heart," 

and surrounded by little adoring faces of winged 
imaginings. Here is charity, the wide love of all, 
as in "The Quality of Mercy" and "The Fellow- 

"Feast me no feasts that for the few are spread. 
With holy cup of brotherhood ungraced." 

And here are other treasures of feeling and form, as 
in the Ariel daintiness of "Pot-Pourri," which was 
a special favorite of the late Colonel Higginson. 

The mystery of death seems to have haunted our 
poet's mind from the days of her girlhood, when the 
loss of a student friend produced the touching lines 
on "Clara." The same large loving-kindness which 
appears in the preceding section is revealed even 
more fully in the division introduced by "Azrael." 
But it is now a loving-kindness "storm-writhen," 
like her own oak-boughs, content with no conven- 
tional view of grief, and finding its consolations only 

by unfaltering pilgrimage through the darkest re- 
cesses of the Valley of the Shadow. Yet the stark, 
terrible candor of "The Gates of Death" is suc- 
ceeded by the divine joy of "Immortality." And 
the series of elegies which follows is wrought with a 
reverent and grief-transmuting art which fulfils the 
singer's own prophecy that 

"Sorrow shall be beauty in the magic of the morn." 
One is reluctant to pass with a mere mention the 
tender loveliness of the sonnets entitled "The Rest 
is Silence," the unique charm of the lyric in memory 
of the Misses Eastmans' dog "Laddie," Sigurd's 
brother, and the most melodious ripple of "Yes- 
terday's Grief," that radiant jew r el-song whose con- 
cluding line we quote above. The final poem of this 
section is the great "Threnody," in memory of 
Sophie Jewett, beloved and lamented of all her 
Wellesley, but especially to Professor Bates, a 
friend unutterably dear. The "Threnody," written 
in heart's blood on the grave of a sacred sorrow, 
"seems," in the words of a poet of international 
fame, "to gather up all beauties under the sweep of 
a wide wing." Those who prize the classic loveli- 
ness of "Lycidas" and "Adonais," the comfort and 
uplift of "In Memoriam," the celestial gleam of 
Miss Jewett's own rendering of "The Pearl," we 
invite to the "rare surprisal" of this most modern 
of elegies. 

"Any sex discrimination in judging Miss Bates' 
poems," says the Transcript, in concluding its re- 
view, "would be as invidious as in the case of Mrs. 
Browning. They reveal to us unmistakably a mind 
of unusual power, expressing itself in a wealth of 
beautiful imaginative forms, and in a rich and 
memorable music." 

Wellesley must not forget, in its pride in Professor 
Bates as college poet and woman poet, her simpler 
and greater designation as American poet. When 
the venerable Longfellow, welcoming her with four 
college comrades to his historic study in the autumn 
of 1879, took occasion to praise her then recent poem 
on "Sleep," in the Atlantic Monthly, he was in 
reality passing on the torch of lyric fire. We re- 
joice in the radiance of that torch to-day. 

Marion Peltox Guild. '8o. 





On Thursdaj evening, December 7, Miss ( hapin, 
Acting Dean, gave a most interesting lectun to the 
Art classes on " At 1 ic ( Wa.\ e Reli :fs." 

Miss Chapin traced the monumental art of 
( rreece as far as possible bj means of recenl di 
eries, from the pre-Persian period, which lasted 
until 480 B. C, through the fifth and fourth cen- 
turies before Christ, and then through the Hellenis- 
tic period, which, in a te< Imi'.il sense, extends from 
320 I>. C. through the Christian era. 

The influence of 1 he very great artists i> expressed 
in the work of the artisans of Greece,— for tin- 
grave monuments arc classed among the lesser 
works of Greece. 

Especially during the fifth and fourth centuries, 
when the archaic eulogizing symbols no longer ap- 
pear, and when noble ideals of grace and symmetry 
were everywhere finding expression, does the ex- 
quisite feeling for the round, the noble reserve in 
the expression of feeling, which is so characteristic 
of Greek art, make itself felt. 

In spite of the fact that the grave reliefs depict 
with wonderful fidelity and detail the daily domestic 
life and temper of the Greeks, and in spite of the 
fact that their love of life and dread of death is 1 >\ er 
and over again made manifest, there is nothing 
gruesome in this art. The modesty and freedom of 
great women, the simplicity and purity of every- 
day life, the exquisite feeling for beauty of line, is 
shown in the figures of these reliefs, as Miss Chapin 
showed by numerous very interesting illustrations. 

An especially valuable feature of the lecture was 
Miss Chapin's tracing the emergence of the true 
ideal of Greek art through the earlier cruder cen- 
turies until its final flowering — a process which can 
be seen in the grave reliefs with remarkable clear- 


The Christmas Masque, presented by the Phi 
Sigma Society on December ninth and eleventh, 
deserves the highest praise, both on account of the 
admirable construction of the play anil the excellent 
interpretation by the actors. In accordance with 
the general trend of the work at present pursued by 
the society, the scene of the play, "Saint Olaf," was 
laid in Scandinavia, at the time of the introduction 
of Christianity. Following is the list of characters: 

King Olaf. Helen \\ 

I larald, the I aii hail 

Maja Ruth 

pherd. R 1 

Gnomes, Norah lelen Whil ; i van 

I 'lap 
Children. Ida Ro 

In choosing for the them* 
( hri-tianity of a devoul 
Washburn and Norah Foote h 
velop a play truly in harmony with the ("hr 
spirit, from beginning to end. It i- alike beautiful 
in coni epti >n and in expression. 

To the actors belongs much credit for the - 
impression that the play made on the auc 
The Scandinavian customs and morals -eemed very 
real under the vivid, sympathetic handling. Ruth 
Pepperday, as Maja, carried strong conviction by 
the quiet earnestness with which - I her 

part. The acting of Myra Martin left little to be 
desired in the skill with which sh 1 the 

hero's varying moods, while the interpr 
the other characters in the play were in accordance 
with the uniform high quality of the masque. 


Friday, January 5. at 1.30 to 3.15 P.M., in < 
Hall Chapel, Student Government nu 

Saturday, January 6, at the Barn, dance. 

Sunday, January 7. at 11.00 A.M.. servi 
Houghton Memorial Chapel. Sermon by I a 
Rev. William Lawrence. Bisho] sachu- 


At 7.00 P.M., in the chapel, vespers. Addr 
Miss Miriam L. Woodberry on "Work Among 
the Indians." 

Monday, January . s . evening, lecture b- 

Lester M. Ward of Brown University, at the in- 
vitation of the Phi Beta Kappa - 
ject: "Education which Educal - 
Lecture by Dr. David Snedden, Commissioner of 
Education in Massachusetts, on "Some Problems 
in Education." Places to be announced later. 


(Alcove 5, College Hall Library. 
Rauschenbusch's book of "Social Prayers 

and the People." 



Editor-in-Chief, Muriel Bacheler, 1912 

Associate Editor, Cathrene H. Peebles, 1912 

Literary Editors. 

Margaret Law, 1912 Marjorie Sherman, 191 

Helen Logan, 1913 Sarah Parker, 1913 


Carol Prentice, 1913 Kathlene Burnett, 1913 

Business Manager, Frances Gray, 1912 

Associate Business Manager, Josephine Guion, 1913 

Assistant Business Manager, Ellen Howard, 1914 

Subscription Editor, Dorothy Blodgett, 1912 

Alumn.e Editor, Bertha March, 1895 

Advertising Business Manager, Bertha M. Beckford, 

Wellesley College. 

The Wellesley College News is published weekly from 
October to July, by a board of editors chosen from the student 

All literary contributions may be sent to Miss Muriel Bach- 
eler, Wellesley College, Wellesley, Mass. 

All items of college interest will be received by Miss Cath- 
rene H. Peebles, Wellesley College, Wellesley, Mass. 

All Alumna? News should be sent to Miss Bertha March, 
394 Massachusetts Ave., Boston, Mass. 

All business communications should be sent to Miss Frances 
Gray, Wellesley College, Wellesley, Mass. 

Subscriptions should be sent to Miss Dorothy Blodgett, 
Wellesley College, Wellesley, Mass. 

Terms, $1 .50 for residents and non-residents; single copies, 
IS cents. 


There are fifty thousand more women than men 
in the high schools, colleges and universities of 
America, according to an editorial in the Chicago 
Advance. Of course the greatest preponderance of 
girls is in the secondary schools, but the numbers 
seem to point to the fact that the educational and 
cultural advancement of American society is to be 
more than ever the woman's part. A rather sober 
New Year thought, and one which leads into many 
differing regions, — but there can be no finer, more 
stimulating word than "responsibility" to people 
who are working to serve, so the News passes it on 
i" you. 


Railroad Tickets, Steamship Tickets, Pullman Reservations, Hotel 
Reservations. All lines. 

Travel Information About Everywhere. 

Rates, Sailings and Diagrams mailed upon request. Corre- 
spondence Respectfully Solicited. 

ISIDOR HERZ CO.,' 422 7lh Ave., between 33rd and 34th Sts., New York. 

S. F. Schleisner, Manager. Established 20 years. 

Indian Blankets 

Made of pure wool, generous in size, warm, 
durable, beautiful fast colors, authentic designs, 
for the living room, boudoir, couch covers, lap 
robes, auto, carriage and porch. 




632 Summer St. Ext., Room 115. Phone Ft. Hill 2220 

THE LESLIE, Marblehead, Mass. 

Open year round. On harbor. Private baths. Week- 
end parties desired. Address, M. M. CHANDLER. 


At the time of the dramatic and moving strike of 
the shirt-waist workers in New York, man}* of us in 
Wellesley were eager to help the girls to maintain 
what their painful sacrifices had won, and the way 
to do this was evidently to buy articles bearing the 
union label. 

At that time this proved difficult to manage, but 
now there is established in New York a Label 
Shop, most conveniently situated at No. 4 West 28th 
street. This shop sells goods made under good 
conditions for the worker, and all bearing labels 
guaranteeing this. 

Goods may be bought on the spot or ordered by 
mail. An illustrated catalogue, showing dresses, 
shirt-waists and white underwear, will be sent on re- 
quest, or this can be seen on the Current Econom- 
ic Events bulletin board, at the west end of the 
second-floor corridor. 


On Sunday evening, January 7, the address at 
vespers will be given by Miss Miriam L. Wood- 
berry, Secretary of the Woman's Department of the 
Congregational Home Missionary Society. Miss 
Woodberry will speak of the work among the In- 
dians. Dorothy M. Gostentedfer, 1914, 

Secretary of the Missionary Committee. 







9 EAST CENTRAL ST., NATICK. Tel. 274-3 Natlck. 

Reception, Dinner, Evening and Street Gowns. Exclusive 
designs. College dresses featured. Separate waists. 




Some minister said, a few weeks ago, "If mop 
preachers pointed oul the fooli hness ol -in rather 
than the wickedne oi in, there would I" 
sinners. No man likes either to be, or i<< be thought 
a fool!" \<>\\ I maintain and I 3aj it not becaut 
I consider ii men- pei ua i i moral reasoning, but 
because I deem it to be truth thai the procedure 
of certain society girls, cited by an alumna in a re- 
cent number of the News — that of pushin 
"rushing") their personal friends into official po-i 
lions without regard to their individual fitness for 
those offices, and as a means to attaining member- 
ship in some society, is short-sighted foolishness. 
Must I prove my point? 

I understand, perfectly, that the motive of the 
deed is most often that of loyalty and love to some 
personal friend. But that love, which ignorantly 
or wilfully blinds itself to the good of the larger 
number in the desire to serve one person, is not 
love. A Wellesley secret society is, I take it, a group 
of congenial friends, joined together in quest of an 
ideal for themselves, for the college world, and for 
the world-at-large. Congeniality of two or more 
friends is characterized by several or all of these 
elements: Common early training which influ- 
ences the opinions and moulds the character into 
similar shapes; common environment, or social po- 
sition; the magnetic attraction of one personality 
for another; the delight of supplementing the mind 
and talents of another — of being what the Hebrew 
text has it Eve was to Adam, the "completement " 
of another human being; and finally, best of all, the 
joy of working together for a common good. Those 
of us who lived under the old society system remem- 
ber a few mistakes in our own judgment in choosing 
members for the society, and, of course, realized at 
once many more in the choices made by other peo- 
ple. The errors arose largely because we empha- 
sized the less important elements of congeniality. 
The new system, on the other hand, possesses 
among other advantages, that of better judgment, 
for it substitutes for personal prejudice the de- 
cision of public opinion, as shown by the choice of a 
girl for some public office where she has an oppor- 
tunity to show her ability. Furthermore, it places 
a higher valuation upon sincere and able academic 
work than has ever been set before. Why, then, 
should the undergraduates of to-day be foolish 
enough to revert to the disadvantages of the old 
system? The best society girls of the days of yore 
were those who were drawn by the ideals of their 
society, as shown either in the life of an individual 
or in the life of the society. Why, then, not wait 
until girls have shown by their ambition and work 

in other Iti 

quest for the i I. 


rd about " 
attendant e this time, but th< 
In the vestibul 

almost a "Barn" crush. nd around, 

chatting in little groups, h would be • • i< 
in harmony with our - 

for those who wish I 

one would pass along and meet h«-jr friend". 
out side. 


\\ ■• talk in a high-sounding waj about 
tion of national res quite im- 

portant and very much relii k our 

note-books under our arm- after two h-ur-' read- 
ing on the subject for the i nomir 
lesson. In one recitation we disp ■ -■ of the qu< 
and can safely let it slip out of our minds (we have 
it in our note-, understand, Freshmen — cramming 
material saved up for mid :n for 
immigration or some other weighty problem. 

fn the me antime, a noti I on the Ii' 

floor, and house chairmen are making dutiful little 
speeches, asking us to please turn off the lights 
when we're through using them. We're learni 
do it in the library; the click-click of the lights 
about us are some little aid t" memory. But 
Goldsmith's "Citizen of the World," perhaps 
our distinguished Japan* - ight wry well 

ask, in crossing the campus at the dinner hour: 
"Do American lady students n< . n>>\v 

I see lights in each window; surely the scholars are 
not already at work!" 

We're proud of our scholarly atmosphere; but we 
wouldn't aid any such illusion as to our world- 
famed Wellesley. Instead, we must admit that 
the lights are a sign oi carel "her than 

studiousness, and that we need more light on the 
question of conservation and our relation in a 
small way to this big qucsti >n, an I on 

vacant rooms and unused desks in the library. 


On the evening oi December tenth. IV: - 
Arthur Pierce, of Smith College, lectured before the 
Philosophy Club on the subject of "Avers 
Study in Sub-normal Individual Psychol - 

Dr. Pierce defines aversions as experiences more 
intense than dislike, but not exactly in the r _ 
of fear. The experiences are characterised as un- 
pleasant, and attended by emotional factors 
bodily commotion, such as shuddering, faint 
and nausea, with a strong impulse to avoid the ob- 
ject of the aversion. They are instinctive, and 






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hence are instructive as a display of individual and 
racial characteristics. The points to be answered 
are: What is the origin of aversions? Are they ac- 
quired or congenital? Do they change? If so, under 
what circumstances? What is the quality and 
range of the physical disturbance? 

From a large amount of material gathered from 
college students and others, Professor Pierce classi- 
fies aversions under four heads: those of sense, ani- 
mal aversions, aversions to people, and miscella- 
neous. The aversions of sense include sight, hear- 
ing, smell and touch; manifested against certain 
colors, red hair, bumpy surfaces, squeaking or 
crunching noises, silk gloves, leather, satin, cotton, 
the odor of apples or roses. Animal aversions apply 
most often to cats, mice, snakes and bugs. Aver- 
sions to people are usually connected with some 
physical characteristic, as bulging forehead, pop- 
ping or heavy-lidded eyes, clammy hands. Under 
the miscellaneous class come many strange aver- 
sions to the sound of certain words and gestures. 

These phenomena are distinguished from mere 
dislike by greater violence and bodily commotion. 
The physical reactions are, rather, of the fear 
type, and the mental attitude is one of recoil. But 
the experience is not fear, for there is no alarm, and 

often a recognition of the harmlessness of the object. 
Neither is anger a factor; any aggressiveness or vio- 
lence is due only to the imperative need of getting 
rid of the object. 

The origin of most aversions is unknown. They 
are often the after effects of an early experience of 
fear, and may have, as further cause, the acci- 
dental intensification of a natural aversion which 
might otherwise have been outgrown; they may be 
the result of contagion, individual or social, as in the 
feminine aversion to mice. They are more frequent 
among women than men, on account of woman's 
greater sensitiveness, or the social factor which pre- 
vents men from giving way to their feelings. 

The courses taken by aversions are various; they 
may suddenly disappear, diminish, increase, or be 
wholly overcome. That they may be overcome, is 
evident. They should be recognized as merely sub- 
normal, not abnormal, and tried as oddities rather 
than weaknesses. They should not be thrust out as 
excrescences, but organized into the mental life — 
not by violence, but by a "gentle snubbing raillery." 
"Our mental balance," said Professor Pierce, "is 
not like a heavy, stolid steam-roller, but like a 
bicycle which keeps straight by swerving from side 
to side, and is complex and flexible." 


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Taylor Block, Wellesley Square Over Post Office 
Telephone Connection 

I E W E I. L E = l. I. V ' LL EG E N E 

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The Browning Society <>f Boston offers i\w< 
prizes, of thirty and twentj dollars respectively, for 
the two best essays on the subjecl oi "Browning's 
Creative Arl as Shown in the 'Ring and the Book.'" 

The offer is open tn undergraduates of Well 
* ollege. The winners are expected, ii possible, to 
read their essays before the societj al an assigned 
meel ing. 

The essays are to be of aboul lour thousand 
words, submitted under the usual conditions oi 
sealed names, to a Committee of Judges appointed 
by the society, and are to be sent before March 
first, 1912, to the corresponding secretary, Miss 
Marie Ada Molineux, 2 Regent Circle, Boulevard, 
Brookline, Mass. 


The first Artist Recital of the season of 1911-1912 
was given in College Hall Chapel, December 4, 
191 1, at 7.30 P.M. The Kneisel Quartette, mem- 
bers of which are Franz Kneisel, Julius Roentgen, 
Louis Svecenski and Willem Willeke, rendered the 
following programme: 

I. Quartette in C major Mozart 

Adagio — Allegro 
Andante cantabile 
Menuetto (Allegretto) 
Allegro molto 
Two movements from Quartette in E minor, 

Andantino douccment espressif 

Assez vif et bicn rythme 
Le Desir — Fantasie for Violoncello, 

Francois Servais 
Quartette in G major, Op. 15. . .A. Kopylow 
Moderato — Allegro 


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HOLDBN'S Studio 

20 North Avenue, /Natick 

Hi^h Grade F^ortrciitM 

Telephone Connection 


Office, 555 Washington St Id. 14-2 

Conservatories. 103 Linden Si Id. 11 I 
Ordtrs by >\ a i I or Otherwise are <ii\cn Pnmpt \rtention 

J. TAILBY & SONS, Props., Wellesley. Mass. 


Carri.s a full line of choice Truit, Confection- 
ery and other goods, Fanc\ Crackers, Pista- 
chio nuts and all kinds or salted nuts, Olive 
Oil and Olives of all kinds 

Tel. 138W. 


Dry and Fancy Goods 


The Norman. jfl 

.* Wellesley Sq. 


Ladies' Tailor and Furrier, 

Cleinsini; and D>eing. Alter- 
ing Ladies' Suits a Specialty. 

543 Washington St.. Wellesley Square, 
Oppoiite Post-Office. Telephone Welleslej T17-R. 




Picture Cord. Coat Hangers. Rods. Mission Stains. 
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It has been said of the Kneiscl Quartette that 
they play "as a single instrument;" this was one of 
the most notable features of the performance, 
Monday night, when each crescendo or diminuendo 
and every rubato, especially of the impassioned 
and highly-dramatic Debussy selections, were 
given with an absolute unison of feeling. The 
violoncello solo, perfect in technique and emotion- 
ally effective, was particularly appreciated by the 
large audience. 


The Wellesley College Record wishes greatly 
information concerning the following alumnae and 
former students of the college: 
2596. Fockens, Anne C. (Mrs. 

Waterman.) 1886-87. 
2686. Franklin, Lillian B. '85-6. 
French, Elizabeth Hamilton. 
French, Maud M. 1893-95. 
Frisbee, Mary E. 1884-86. 
Fuller, Lucy E. (Mrs. Edwin R. Folsom.) 
2770. Fuller, Marion Lovett. 

son Maynard.) 1887-90. 
2791. Gale, Maty E. '86-8. 

Gardiner, Elizabeth Wickes. 
Gates, Georgia. 1882-83, 1885-86. 
Giddings, Madaline. 1885. 
Giffin, Ruth E. 1880. 
Gilbert, Kathryn H. 1909-10. 
2880. Giles,' Ellen R. 1892-93. 
2883. Gill,- Kittie E. (Mrs. Professor Burleigh 
S. Annis.) 1889-92. 



Chauncey H. 


(Mrs. Louis Peter- 


























Gifts in Solid Gold and 
Sterling Silver Novelties. 

Parisian Ivory Photograph Frames, 
College Seals and 

Fountain Pens 

A visit of inspection will interest you. 

•83-4. (Mrs. W. S. Ad- 
(Mrs. C. Eustice Har- 
(Mrs. Harlan W. 

2941. Gooch, Pauline. 

2967. Gordon, Helen M. 

rell.) 1893-97. 
2981. Gould, Emma Eaton. 

Whipple.) 1888-89. 
2994. Graham, Grace G. 1901-02. 
2 995- Grambo, Mary Abbott. '92-93. 
3003. Gray, Eloise. '82-3. 
3005. Gray, Helen Mar. '79. 
301 1. Gray, Mary Estelle. (Mrs. Walter Evans 

Andrews.) 1886-90. 
3027. Green, Mary Somerville. (Mrs. J. S_ 

Phillips.) '77. 
3058. Gregory, Lydia J. 1883-84. 
3067. Griffin, Edythe DeV. 1902-3. 
3070. Griffin, Etta. 1902-3. 
31 10. Gunn, Edna C. 1909-10. 
3136. Hale, Edna. '85-7. 
3140. Hale, Olive Josephine. (Mrs. Everett 

Schwartz.) 1887-88. 
3179. Hall, Ruth Griswold, 1879-80. 
Hallett, Edith M. 1905-1906. 
Halsey, Bertha M. 1893-94. 
Hamilton, Jennie Louise. 1879-80. 
Hancock, Edith Stark. 1895-96. 
Harding, Julia A. '86-7. 
Hardman, Grace Marie. 1899 — . 
Harris, Sina Lee. (Mrs. W. Woods White. > 


3307. Harrison, Theodora F. 1904-1906 
3336. Harvard, Harriet. 1888-89. 
3340. Hasbrook, Ethelberta. 1893-94. 
3347. Haskell, Willa Louise. (Mrs. 

Higgins.) 1878-83. 

3368. Hatfield, Lola. '83-4. 

3369. Hatfield, Minnie. '83-4. 
3382. Haulenbeck, Ruth. B.A. 
3435. Heath, Evelina Belle. 

Halsted.) 1886-87. 
3460. Henderson, Alice H. '81-2. 
3466. Henderson, Mary Browning. 



Henry J. 

Alfred T. 



(Formerly with G. L. Abell) 

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Call and see the new College Seals at $3.50. New 

College Views. Pictures Framed to 

order. Students' Necessities. 

Developing and Printing. 

Room 7, Taylor Building, Wellesley, Mass. 
Studio at Newtonville. 



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Chandler's Corset Stores 


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pers For Sale at the 


Marcus Ward Company, 

Belfast, Ireland New York, U. S. A. 




Packed where grown, in san- 
itary cans. Absolutely pure 
and guaranteed first quality 

William M. Flanders Co, 

Wholesale Grocers 

48-49 India St., Boston 

T II E WK LL ES L E v . < OL L EG I. 


d h i||e=H|D||a||a||[=i||c: 

1! a 

X. $. lollanber & Co. 

Boston flew 



= Special Attention is Called to Our New 
Weight English Norfolk Blazers. 

Heavv U 


202 anb 216 poplston fttreet, Boston 

□ infill i|[u][b||n||i 





A. Stowell & Co., Boston 2nd cover 

Bailey, Banks & Biddle Co 3rd cover 

Shrcve, Crump & Low, Boston vi 

Tiffany & Co i 

Long, Boston iv 

Haydcn 36 


Cook 35 

English Tea Room iv 

Old Natick Inn 35 

Wellesley Inn ii 

Wellesley Tea Room 34 


Christie, Boston vi 


Oliver Ditson Company 2nd cover 


A. E. Covelle & Co., Boston xiii 

Pinkham & Smith Co., Boston vi 


Vantine, Boston, New York xi 

Chickering & Sons 3rd cover 


Abell, Wellesley iii 

C. W. Holden, Natick 35 

Nichols 36 


Walnut Hill School xiii 


E. W. Burt >S; Co., Boston 

Moseley Co., Boston vi 

Sorosis Shoe Co., Boston viii 

Thayer, McNeil *x Hodgkins, Boston 


Damon, Boston \ 

Marcus Ward Co 

Samuel Ward Co iii 


Isidor Herz Co 32 


Chandler & Co.. Boston 2nd cover 

Chandler's Corset Store. Boston vii 

L. P. Hollander >.\ Co., Boston i\ 

C. F. Hovey & Co., Boston 3rd cover 

Henry S. Lombard \: 

Jordan Marsh Co., Boston ii 

A. L. LaVers Co., Boston v 

Noyes Bros iv 

A. Shuman >$: Co., Boston xii 

E. T. Slattery Co., Boston 4th cover 

Thresher Bros.. Boston vii 


Read what a U. S. Army Officer says about Moore's 

Eoise Banicfcs, Idaho. 
"Kindly send me the catalogue of Moore's Fountain Pens. I have used one for the last 
three years and can assure you it has stood the test. I have carried it in mv pocket in cavalry 
drill every day for three years, a test I do not believe anv other pen would stand. Todav this 
pen is as good as on the day I bought it." 

Everywhere under all conditio-s Moore's has stood the test. C It won't leak. C. It writes at the 
first stroke. G. It_writes evenly and freely. CL It is ready to fill as soon as the cap is off. C It is made 
in the most careful manner of the best materials. CL Every Moore's is absolutely guaranteed. 


ADAMS, GUSHING & FOSTER, Selling Agents, 168 Devonshire Street, Boston 

Canadian Agents W. J. GAGE & CO., Toronto, Canada 





XV 3 




*a — -a — -a — 'O— •» — a — o= — a— a — «o — a — o — >a — -a- 

■o- — o* 

/. .\ FURS .*. .*. 

Edward F. Kakas & Sons, 

364 Boylston Street, 

Near Arlington Street. 

•o — o* 

•o — a> 

•a — a — o — 

XV 5 

Special Discount to Students 










Real Oriental 
Kimonos . . . 

W in the adrr. 

ass mate- 
wearing a Van t i n e 
Kimono ! They have 
tone, elegance and 
II distin- 
guish you as a girl of 
taste and refinement. 

Prices from $3.50 to $35 

Write «*Yuki >an" for 
Kimono Book 

360 to 362 Boylston St. 
Boston, Mass. 

Also New York and 


Mackinaw Coats 

Are Made Expressly for 


Finest Fitting 

Choicest Patterns 

Exclusive Designs 


Henry S. Lombard, 

22 to'26 Merchants' Row, Boston, 



George P. Raymond Co, 


5 Boylston Place 


College Dramatic Work a Specialty 





I The College Girl 
* of To-Day 

Will Find the Most Up-to- 
date Exclusive Styles in 
Our Third Floor Annex — 
the Greatest Department 
in New England Devoted 
to Misses' Apparel .... 


A. Shuman & Co. 


* Ladies' Gymnasium 

X X X X 

Endorsed and Used by the Leading 
Physical Educators. Made Under 
Conditions Approved by Consumers' 


k Suits and 
| Apparel . 






X X X X 

Columbia Gymnasium 
Suit Co. 

301 Congress St., Boston, Mass. 


Miss Ruth Hodgkins 

Wellesley Toilet 
Parlors .*. v .*. 

Shampooing, Facial Treatment, 
Scalp Treatment, Manicuring, 
Hair Dressing, Chiropody . . . 

Taylor Block, Rooms 4-5-6 


Telephone 122-W 

Open from 8.30, A. M. to 6, P. M. Mondays 
until 8, P. M. 


595 Washington St., Wellesley, Mass. 

%* %* T % 







s £^^ 

■,-«jA. V 11 ft 
1 • ■ J kll r 1 




Lamson & Hubbard, 

92 Bedford Street, 


At Economical 1'ruc-. 


Sue II. M. Carter & _ 

Stationers — Engravers — Printers 

7 Pemberton Square, .,! 

A. E. Covelle & Co., 

Prescription Opticians 

ff^_^£Q Special attention to the filling of QcaHsfs' 

^— t-""^ Prescriptions 

350 Boylston Street, Boston 

Cameras and Supplies, Develop- 
ing, Printing and Enlarging. . . 

Ask to see OUR OLD COMFORT Eye-Glass. The 
most Comfortable Eye-GIass in the world. 

C. M. McKechnie & Co. 




Furnished in Any Quantity 

Quality Guaranteed 

No. 10 Main St., Natick, Mass. 

:: :: THE :: :: 

Walnut Hill School, 


A College Preparatory 
School for Girls. . . . 


MISS BIGELOW \ Principals. ■ ■ 



Keeping Trouble Out of the Kitchen. 

Her pudding is burnt. When hurried and overworked, the woman in the kitchen 
is sure to have disasters. 

Cakes will "fall," pies will bake unevenly, and puddings will burn. 
Everything that keeps trouble out of the kitchen helps woman's work. 

does that. It never burns. It doesn't have to be cooked. It 
never goes wrong. It saves time as well as trouble. 

A Jell-O dessert can be made in a minute. A package of 
Jell-O and a pint of boiling water are all that is needed. 

Jell-O desserts are pure and delicious, and beautiful in the 
seven different colors. 

Seven delightful flavors : Strawberry, Raspberry, Lemon, 
Orange, Cherry, Peach, Chocolate. 

Ten cents a package at all grocers'. 

The beautiful Recipe Book, "DESSERTS OF THE 
WORLD,*' illustrated in ten colors and gold, will be 
sent free to all who write and ask us for it. A splen- 
did book. 

Le Roy, N. Y., and Bridgeburg, Can. 

The name Jell-0 is on every package in big red letters. If it isn't there, it isn't Jell-O. 

Bailey, Banks & Biddle Co. 

Diamond Merchant*, Jewelers, 
Silversmiths, Stationers 

Makers of Class and Society Emblems, Bar 
Pins and other Novelties for 



Illustrations and Prices of Class and Fraternity 
Emblems, Seals, Charms. Plaques, Medals. Souvenir 
Spoons, etc., mailed upon request. All Emblems 
are executed In the workshops on the premises, 
and are of the highest grade of finish and quality. 


Particular attention given to the de- 
signing and manufacture of Class Rings. 

1218-20-22 CHESTNUT STREET. 


:: :: OUR 

Midwinter Sale 


Is Now in Progress 

Marked Reductions in 
All Departments :: 

C. F. HOVEY & CO. 

HE Justly Admitted Title to Su- 
premacy, -jo long held by the f 
Chickering Piano, is in evidence 4 
to-day more than ever before, /for the J 
present output of our house is superior to 4 
any we have heretofore produced in our 2 
Eighty-eight years of continuous business. 3 


791 Tremont Street I 

Cor. Northampton St., oeaifMass." Are. 
Established 1623 in 'Boston.' Mass. J 

0^*^»^s>V * ») r « * *c»>>^V,.s> ) ^fe*>>*sV»^ 

E. XL. Slattern do. 

Opposlte^Boston Common 

154 anb 155 aCremout Street, Boston 



Embracing Thousands of Pieces of the 


Both French Hand-Made 
and High-Class American 

THE E. T. SLATTERY COMPANY announce their January White Sale 
with the conviction that they are presenting to the women of Boston 
and vicinity an opportunity superior to any they have ever attained and 
one that is unrivaled in the history of White Sales held in New England. 
The following is illustrative of the energy and effort expended by the E. T. Slattery 
Company to make this the premier event of their business year. 

First. All Undermuslins offered during this Sale are new, fresh and of the most 
modern and fashionable order and were made specially for the E. T. Slattery Com- 
pany in anticipation of this event. 

Second. All French Garments were selected by a member of this firm in France 
and are cut from American patterns, insuring ample fullness, which is noticeably 
lacking in the usual run of French garments. 

Third. The collection embraces a host of new ideas in trimmings, yokes, sleeves, 
etc., and the E. T. Slattery Company firmly believe this to be one of the most, if 
not the most beautiful collection of lingerie ever brought into Boston. 

Fourth. So positive are they that their prices are substantially lower than like 
Merchandise can be purchased for elsewhere that they will permit articles to be 
selected and sent home for comparison, and should customers find that this is not 
a fact, merchandise may be returned and the E. T. Slattery Company will assume 
the expense of delivery both ways. 

Fifth. All French Underwear, hand-made as well as hand-embroidered, every 
piece fully laundered.